


HOTEL 7 - NYC Series

by BLUEFICTION2



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Cabo, HOTEL SERIES, M/M, POV Armie Hammer, POV Timothée Chalamet, Scandal, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BLUEFICTION2/pseuds/BLUEFICTION2
Summary: HOTEL 7 is a 10 part/5 chapter series that centers around Armie and Tim's time in NYC during the summer of 2020. How they cope with the pandemic, domestic life and what happened in Cabo the year before.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. HOTEL 7.1 New York Minute - Minute by Minute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Armie have to be innovative to maintain their long distance relationship between New York and London.
> 
> And in part 2 - With the pandemic in full force, Tim shows up at Armie's apartment in New York City to live as they await the final stages of renovations on their new loft.

HOTEL 7.1a New York to London - New York Minute   
HOTEL 7.1b Minute by Minute - London to New York 

___

■ ☆ Disclaimer: this is a fictional depiction of the two actors (and other peripheral characters) mentioned within the following storyline  
___

■ New York to London - New York Minute  
___

● Timmy  
___

"Motherfu-"

"Armie?"

"Yeah."

I'm afraid to ask what's wrong.

"Ouch. Damn."

"What are you doing to yourself?"

"Myself! I'm trying to exist in a very expensive apartment designed for pygmies." He groans again, and I can't tell over the phone if he's in real distress or if the drama is all for my benefit.

"Come on!" He yells again.

It can't be that bad.

"I'm going to fire the smartass who thought a minimum six foot clearance was okay for a stately man like myself. It's a fucking joke." Armie is finally more succinct than his vague references to --

Pygmies.

"How come you're not in the new loft?" He's got options.

"Because some little shit decided to redecorate and then scurried off to do his play on another fucking continent."

Oh yeah. That.

"Oops."

"I gave you a key. Thank fucking God I didn't give you my credit card on top of that."

He did though. And he's not mad. Just cranky. I can deal with cranky.  
___

■ LOOK ABOUT  
___

The loft is beautiful. Huge. Spacious.

But sadly in need of a coat of paint, resurfaced floors and a serious upgrade in appliances.

And whoever thought THAT color everywhere was a cohesive statement must need glasses.

Because who the fuck chooses blood red for a toilet/bath/sink combo, with gold fixtures and a zebra patterened tile for the shower?

No wonder the guy wanted a quick sale. Did Armie even see this?

Probably not. And he did tell me to make any changes I saw fit.

And well -  
___

■ SENDING VIDEO  
___

"You could have given me some warning so I wouldn't be stuck HERE."

Is Armie actually whining?

"I did." I know I did because Armie wanted updates and I'd showed them to him earlier while he was still in Hawaii, but time was ticking and we both had shit to do so I didn't wait for feedback.

"Hold on, I'm sending video." I tell him, even though I'm sure I've sent it before.

Armie is mysteriously silent.

"Didn't you kno--"

"I had no idea." He blurts out.

Obviously he hasn't seen it.

"It does makes a statement though." I'm being kind.

"Not really the statement I was looking for." He pauses for a second, letting out a huge huff of air.

I wait while he digests the situation.

"Armie?"

"Carry on. Do whatever's necessary."

Okay. He definently seems calmer.

"I've picked out almost everything and the contractor says four to six weeks."

"Meaning two months."

"That's how I see it too." I say, glad he's finally on board. "Can you handle eight weeks?"

"I don't see as I have any other option. But please for the love of God, tell me there's no chance of an Elvis - Liberace design team."

"You just want to make Architectural Digest."

"I want to live in a place without mirrored walls or shag carpeting."

"Or wild animal skins covering the furniture." I'm guessing.

"That too."

"You'll make Peta proud."

"Zebra in the shower was bad enough. Don't really want one draped over the Barcelona chairs I know you've picked out for the great room."

How does he know this?

"I know because you gave them my contact information for the order." He can read me like a fucking book.

"They needed that and I can't do fuck all from over here."

"Sure you can. You can micro manage me quite well from anywhere in the world."

I smile at that. It's really not true, but who am I to argue if he thinks so.

"No shag rug. No mirrored walls. And no dead animals. Got it."  
___

I've got a message, and I see Armie's me sent a link for an image but checking IG, I only find a picture of the cursed light fixture. And his head. And tens of thousands of crazy fans who think his living situation is just deplorable.

Little do they know.

But okay, I see his point.

I don't say anything or acknowledge it, much like he didn't acknowledge all the photos of the loft I'd forwarded.

Petty, sure, but he deserves it.  
__

Armie's voice interrupts my reverie.

"Your mother sent me something the other day." Fuck, he sounds smug.

This is new. My mother only sends me shit, not Armie.

I'm her kid, she loves me more.

"The DAZED China issue." Armie explains.

"You've already seen it." He has. I sent it to him when I first got here.

"Yeah, but now I have one of my very own." He sounds so proud.

"Mom requested a dozen copies before they hit the stands."

"In China." He states.

Yeah, that's a problem. And China's a little far to go for a magazine when ordering online is so exorbitant.

I want to ask what he thinks of the magazine because it's much different than viewing the thumbnails on his phone.

"So how do you like the spread?" I want to know, he hasn't actually said if he likes it or not.

"I'm waiting for you to do a different kind of spread." Armie does a dramatic pause.

"In Playgirl." He adds.

"It doesn't exist anymore."

"Thank fucking God." He laughs. "I'd have to scrape fandom off the fucking walls if you showed the full Monty."

Armie's teasing doesn't bother me because, one: I've either become used to it, or two: I've come to appreciate his twisted sense of humour. I'm picking door number two because Armie has a wicked take on what's funny.

Plus, he knows I don't do frontal. Not for anyone but him.

Does adjusting my self on film count?  
__  
__

Catching up when we're almost 4,000 miles part (at least when he was in Chicago for rehearsals), has been a journey through current events, news about our plays and explaining some really unfortunate paparazzi shit.

My trip over to Paris and the parties later on that night were something I hadn't prepared Armie for, although he didn't give me too much grief at the actual time.

"Hey fashion boy, I saw your latest accessory." I can hear the humour seep into his voice, and know he's referring to my banana eyeglass case.

"I bought it thinking of you." Is my truthful answer.

Two can play this game.

"Awww, that's so... a-dor-able." His saccharine voice draws out the last word, and I wonder where he's going with this, because he's going fucking somewhere.

"It's like I'm carrying you around on my hip." I say sweetly.

Armie laughs at my sentiment.

"That's nice. But Timmy lad, you're sadly mistaken if you think that poor excuse for a cock-sock can hold me. You should have bought a MUCH BIGGER case."

And his comeback doesn't disappoint.

Just wait until he gets a look at my gloves.

He saw them in DAZED but what he doesn't know is that I've got dozens of them.

And they fit like, well a glove -

Accommodating each digit within leather so soft and supple it feels like its a part of my own flesh.  
__

I'm glad he's become light and playful again because dealing with his mini-drama over our renovation crisis, over the phone no less, is exhausting, not to mention I want to get him on board for a video chat later.

And by a video chat I mean video sex.  
___  
___

■ NEW YORK MINUTE  
■ GOING TO VIDEO  
___

● Armie:  
___

Tim seems anxious to move things along.

Or maybe he's just trying to coax me out of a bad mood but whatever the reason, I know where this is going.

Either way, the lad is not hard to read. Tim wants video sex.

And who am I to quibble when it's really our only option right now? It's not like either of us can abandon our commitments and rendezvous in Hawaii for two weeks.  
__

I balance my laptop on my knees, his image coming onto my screen, beautiful and naked.

And I fucking almost swallow my tongue.

The thrill of watching the lad's resplendent form stretched out on his bed in London, is only exacerbated when he reaches out of frame, bringing back what I assumed was only a prop, but sweet Timmy has taken to appropriating items from photoshoots.

This doesn't really surprise me.

What almost gives me heart failure isn't just the item but -

OH FUCK IT.  
__

I'm rock hard as his hand slides up and down his own cock, and there's no way he doesn't know what he's doing to me.

Up to the tip, one sheathed finger slowly circling, then tracing back down to the base.

My breath hitches and he smiles.

No angel now.

One side of his mouth twitches, his tongue peeks out.

Tantalizing.

Fucking with me.

God damn it, he is fucking with me.  
__

I can't do anything but stare.

And my breath that hitches --

Stops.

I forget to breathe.

Watching that fucking black glove caress --

Him.

I don't see it's as part of Timmy.

This hand. That's not.

No.

It's something else.  
__

He drizzles more lube over what must be the softest calfskin.

The black leather -

Glistens.

It must feel fucking good.

Fuck good!

Fantastic!

I'm torn between feeling what I'm watching.

And just watching him.

Tim.  
__

I groan as he resumes stroking.

Building up.

Building both of us up.

His body shifts as his movements become ---

Faster.

More deliberate.

Focused.  
__

My hand gravitates to my cock.

I can't help it. But -

"No!"

Tim's voice echoes in my brain.

His shout, no, command, yes that's what it was, takes me back to shower floors, my body sore from the enema, as he pushes me down.

Flat.

His tongue raping my hole.

And me letting him.

I had no reason to be angry. After.

And just like now, he's in control.  
__

"Don't. Touch. Yourself."

Each word rapier sharp, cutting me to the bone; my hands grip the keyboard in my attempt to comply with his wishes.

Tim smirks into the camera.

He knows he's got me.

His hips pump his cock up into his hand.

Not his hand. That black disembodied thing that's got him so hot and bothered.

Me, so hot and bothered.  
__

He takes off the glove, moving it to his face.

Smelling it.

Licking it.

Tongue reaching out to tickle the slick fingers.  
__

Holy fuck.  
__

He opens the leather, sliding it down to cover his cock.

His hand gripping the glove, the glove gripping his cock.

Mine leaking all over the fucking place.

I want to be that glove.

Be it my mouth or my ass, I want that glove to be me.

Covering.

Gliding so effortlessly up and down.

I can't see his cock, but I know how it feels.

I can feel it too.

My ass pulses with remembrance.  
__

Tim's focus never falters as his head is thrown back, the tendons in his neck strain and bulge as his head now thrashes to the side.

And his composure is broken as he rears up one last time, his groan, fuck his howl, has a pavlovian effect and my cock erupts without me ever touching it.

My howl matches his as wave after wave hits me like a fucking tsunami.

I have lost control, lost my mind, and lost my heart to Timmy.  
__

"Don't touch yourself." His voice echoes in my brain.

I will not to disobey.

Never while he's in command.  
__

"Armie." Tim says softly, staring up at me from under ridiculously long lashes.

He slides the glove off his spent cock, and a trickle of cum drips from the leather onto his stomach.

It's erotic, and obscene, and just fucking hot.

He uses the same fingertip that caressed himself through the glove to scoop it up and slowly rub it over his bottom lip.

It shimmers like fucking lip gloss.

It gets me hard again, watching him absently play with his bottom lip, pushing the cum around, tugging it as he decides what to do next.

And just as I'm about to suggest another round, Tim sighs, "It's late."

"Yeah." I can tell he's toast.

"Night, Armie."

"Good night Tim." Sweet dreams, I smile to myself.

Yes I will dream of him tonight.  
___  
___

■ Minute by Minute   
___  
___

● Armie  
___

"Don't touch yourself." His voice echoes in my brain.

I will not disobey. 

Never while he's in command.  
__

I wake up, the dream still with me, still vivid. 

Did it really happen?

Can I ever get back to a point where what occurred in Hawaii doesn't affect what goes on between Timmy and me?

God I hope not!

My asshole winks, pulsing in remembrance of Tim's rimming. His tongue; hot, probing, pushing inside as his fingers pull me further apart. 

I wanted to reach under to fist my cock. 

I want to reach there now.

I'm hard; copiously leaking into the borrowed sheets as I also must have done during the night.

"No!" My own voice tells me to cease. 

I reach for my phone, speed-dialing the shit out of it.

Morning wood never hurt so bad.  
__

"Hey there. It must be early, what's the problem?" He sounds so normal.

"I'm hard."

Tim's laughter resounds over the speaker. 

"You called at what .. 6:42am .. just to tell me you're hard?"

"It's your fucking fault."

"Well you're a big boy. Do something about it."

He's such a bastard sometimes. 

"I -" 

Wait. What happened last night? Did I fucking dream everything? 

I decide to go for normal.

"The loft renovations; you sent me video yesterday?"

"Yes I did."

Okay, I want to ask if he did more than that but how can I if I'm not at all sure everything else was what? Real?

"Armie?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"What's wrong?" Tim sounds busy, but trying to express an appropriate amount of concern.

"Nothing's wrong." I sigh, then change the subject. "So the contractors are working at the loft?"

If I talk to him about something else maybe I'll get a clue as to what the fuck happened last night.

"Last I heard. But you know this." Tim sounds impatient and I'm regretting this early morning call.

I can hear voices in the background and I know I must be bothering him.

"Listen Armie, I gotta go. I'll talk to you later." It doesn't sound like he's at the theatre.

The connection ends and the new burning question is, "Wait, Timmy where are you?"   
__  
__

Well these sheets are shot, the huge cum stain, still damp from my early morning emission, mocks me from the laundry bin.

There's no housekeeping coming by so I scour up another set, spreading the linens over the wide frame. 

I'd usually have rehearsals but with the climate out there, and the resulting hysteria, we're forgoing for a few days. Until shit calms down.  
__  
__

Heading out, I take a few pictures of the barren streets, and a fountain with a raggedly dressed man sitting there. 

We're all keeping a respectable distance, being cautious, and I wonder what happens to them. The homeless. 

Where do they go?   
__

I'm fine and my life really isn't impacted to a huge degree; even though the play is in limbo, and I'm stuck in this pygmy palace until the loft is finished. So it's probably a good time to make my way over and take a look. I've only seen it in person once before, and then only updates from Tim's videos that I have to admit I did receive. 

I also saw the need for the massive renovations we're undertaking. 

But in my weed induced haze, last night's conversation with Tim had me scrambling to remember the finer details. 

And by the time I arrived in New York, the loft had been basically torn apart showing nothing of the former decor. 

Or as Tim had put it, 1990's Hell. 

There were workmen and contractors milling around that day and I even spoke to one who said that the other guy, meaning Tim, had told them I would be around sometime; although apparently not soon enough as I completely missed the demo phase of the operation.   
__  
__

"Can I help you?" 

I order coffee and a Reuben sandwich, from what is probably the last street cart in New York City, before turning towards the building. 

But this time when I open the door, there's silence. Tools are littered about although no one's around. So I take a walk through to see what's been done and what they have left to do.

The floor's not sanded, but the new walls are up and skimmed, although the final coat in the great room has yet to be determined. 

Tim is suggesting something far bolder than I'm comfortable with, so that is still up for debate. Fuck, I'll probably let him win anyway. 

I check the master bath but the leopard? Giraffe? No zebra tile. Is gone. 

Who am I kidding? I think I'll leave most of the details up to Timmy. He's got an eye for this kind of shit.  
__

Unwrapping the still warm sandwich, I take a large bite, savouring it as I recall the times when Tim and I first shared take-out in the tiny one bedroom he rented near where his mother lives.

We shared many meals there, none of them home cooked, because who the fuck has the time. 

Especially when we were either fucking, getting ready to fuck or too spent to move after fucking. 

And Tim always wakes up hungry. He gets hangry when he doesn't eat. 

Hangry and horny. 

The two moods of Timothée Chalamet.   
__

I try to imagine finished floors, pictures on the walls, the furniture Tim has picked out, and finally a day less a month from now when we can finally call this place home.

The huge bed that Tim custom ordered should come in next week. One that's long enough to accommodate my size and sturdy enough to withstand whatever wild jungle sex we perform on it, around it and over it. 

Then there's the heavy welded frame that will be suspended from the rafters above the bed, much like the one over the kitchen counter.

But instead of suspending pots and pans, the one in the bedroom will suspend shit too. Just not of the cooking variety. 

I take another look at the space, and upon reflection, concede Tim has a point in here. He wants to paint the walls black, and I have no doubt he'll win that round too.   
__

Heading back out to the great room, I realize the workers won't be back any time soon. They've accomplished a lot but there's still a shitload to do; and at this rate, I can only hope we'll be in here before summer.

Because at the end of the day, I don't think I can wait that long.   
___  
___

● Timmy  
___

It's barely 9 at night, and Armie's passed out on the bed.

The pungent smell of weed is -

Everywhere. 

There are take-out wrappers, and I count 5 empty beer bottles littering the floor; and when I trip over a pile of books, Armie groans but does not wake up. 

He's a heavy sleeper on the best of nights, but tonight I don't think he would even wake up for a blowjob.

And this is definitely not a usual night for him, or maybe it is; maybe he's been like this every night he's lived here.   
__  
__

"Owww!"

"You're awake."

"No. Fucking. Shit."

"It's time you woke up." He's been asleep for hours.

"You hit me!"

"Barely."

"Barely, my ass!"

I laugh.

Yep, that's where I hit him. 

"Some little shit broke into my apartment and fucking assaulted me!" Armie goes on, trying to sound indignant, but failing miserably. 

So I slap him again, and because it's still dark and he's lying face down, he never sees it coming.

"What the fuck is that?" Armie twists his head to the side, trying to see.

Now he's definitely awake.

"You know what it is." I use my best Elio voice. 

Because I wanted you to know.

___  
___

● Armie   
___

"Where were you when we talked this morning?" I mean, I think it was this morning; I'm still a little bit foggy on that.

"I was around, just laying low."

"Without telling me?"

"It wouldn't have been a surprise." He sounds unsure.

"And you wouldn't have been able to assault me."

"Will you fucking quit with that assault shit."

"You hit me with that, that - what the fuck is it?"

I think I know what it is, but part of this is getting Tim to admit to the item.

He slowly trails the soft leather over each of my buttocks and the sensation is more than erotic, it's downright obscene. Not what he's doing, but what he's doing to me.  
__

I'm lying flat, my cock pressed into the bedding, with Timmy back in control and I couldn't be happier. He's here. With me. That's all that matters.  
__

Tim stretches out over my body, his chin digging into my shoulder as he grinds his clothed body against mine.

And I know I'll be changing the sheets again after this.

"Are you happy to see me?" He asks.

Can't he tell? If he'd let me turn over he could see just how HAPPY I am.

"Well?"

Tim leans back, his knees bracketing my legs as he presses kisses onto my shoulders, tracing my spine down, down, down. 

His hand travels the same path, but it's gloved, as I now fucking know what he's been slapping me with; and to say I'm overjoyed would be an understatement. 

He leans over to open the nightstand, grabbing the lube, because as Tim would say, duh, there's always lube in the nightstand. It doesn't matter where I'm living, it's in the same place. 

I feel him spatter a cold glob onto my back, his gloved fingers scratching through the slime, circling, then sliding lower until he's there. 

Rising up on my knees, I give him room and the opportunity to explore further.   
__

It feels different. Good. But I'm saddened that I can't feel the heat of his fingers, his hand. 

This seems cool. Distant. Disembodied. 

But I'm slick as his fingers press deeper, pushing, twisting, widening me as he adds another.

I want. No. I need to do something. I'm so hard it hurts, but Tim is not new at this so he's taking his time when all I want to do is flip him over and bury myself deep, so fucking deep, into his asshole - or his mouth if he seems so inclined.  
__ 

I'm rocking back on his hand, my cock ready and hard; as a dribble of pre-cum hits the bedding. 

My mouth is the same, saliva pooling on my tongue, a slight trail of slime creeping out to run down my cheek, my chin. 

My breathing is laboured, partiality because of my excited state and the endless wait. The fucking wait, and the fucking want that encompasses everything; and he just takes his fucking time.

Each second turns into a minute. 

Each minute turns into an hour. 

And those interminable times drag us into infinity.  
__

Tim removes his hand, slipping down to cup my balls; his mouth hot on my flesh, his tongue licking my crack, tunnelling inside.

Oomph!

He can't reach far but the rim-tastic feeling makes up for any lack of depth.   
__

"Roll over."  
__

Hallelujah!  
__

I try not to knock him senseless, body turning, legs flying, Tim scrambling to remove clothes that frankly should have been off right from the start. 

He lays the soft glove on my stomach as he positions my legs up and back; his cock bumping against me as he saddles up to nudge, just fucking nudge at my asshole.   
__

And he gets a good look at my face.

"What the fuck is THAT?" He asks, trying to sound disgusted. 

Tim reaches forward, his hand gripping my chin, his thumb brushing back and forth over several days worth of stubble.

"A goatee." I explain. Is he five?

"Yeah, well -" 

"I wasn't expecting you." 

"No shit."

"Can we just get back to -" I point downwards.

"Mr Happy?"

It's a running argument with Timmy giving Mr Happy a different name, depending on his mood, but I really don't care to reprimand him at this time.  
__

He sits back, his hand reaching to place his cock - there. 

And I want to participate as he slides in. 

My palm encircles my cock, the pad of my thumb rubbing the moisture around and over the head the way we always do when Tim works and I jerk.

"No." 

It's not in my head and he doesn't raise his voice, but the rebuke is there.

He tells me to hold onto the bed frame and not fucking move, and this game has taken another turn. 

His hands push my knees further back as his cock slides deeper. 

I try to breathe normally but that's fucking difficult when he lifts the glove up off my stomach. And placing it back on his hand, he pours lube not onto the slick calf skin but my hardened shaft.

My thickened member, now abundantly coated, stands tall as Tim makes an O with his thumb and middle finger, sliding them slowly down my shaft to the base.

He holds it there, tightening it ever so slightly as he braces his other hand on the bed beside me.

Then he moves.

Fucks.

Rams.

Jamming his cock into me so hard -

And I'm so hard.

The sensation torments me. That elusive glove punishing my dick. Making me hard. Making me hurt.

Timmy leans in, putting his back into fucking the shit out of me. 

And I want to move. To fist my cock at least. But he's unyielding.

All the blood has travelled south, stars are forming before my eyes, my breathing's ragged. TIMMY, I want to yell. JUST FUCKING DO IT!

He lets go of my cock, and ripping the glove off his hand, it covers me.

The black calf skin becoming a prophylactic, held tight by his fist as he begins the not so gentle slide and tug of jacking me off, but never stopping the incessant fucking that hits me right - THERE. 

Tim is relentless.

My fingers dig into the headboard -

And he comes.

Jack-knifing my legs, my calf muscles screaming for relief, just like the rest of me.

My body arches - 

Up - 

Up.

FUCK!

And I bellow. 

Great gusts of air leaving my lungs as I cum - 

On his time. On his terms

My entire being controlled by Timmy.   
__

And I've never felt better.  
__  
__

"About this fucking chin hair of yours-" Tim leans in to kiss me.

"Now that you're here, I wouldn't dream of giving you razor burn."

He kisses me again, curling into my side.

"Wake me when you're recovered." He jokes, putting one leg over mine.

Tim sighs and I can tell he's exhausted. 

"I recovered the minute you came through my door." I want to say. 

But he's asleep before I can tell him.  
___  
___

■ Epilogue:   
___

And when I came to...

What a funny and appropriate phrase. 

I can hear Timmy wandering around the apartment, checking things out, and not being so fucking subtle about it. 

"You're up." He sticks his head in the doorway. 

"Yeah. What have you been doing?"

I want to further ask him why he's here. How he got here.

"I was trying to imagine your head hitting the light fixture in the bathroom."

"You don't have to imagine it because it's going to happen in about 30 seconds." 

My bladder is bursting from all the beer and later the water Tim forced down me last night.

He always makes sure I stay hydrated when I'm high. Or drunk. Or both.  
__

Tim laughs as I duck under the bathroom light on my way to the john.

"You're probably wondering why I'm here." Tim follows me into the confined space.

He loves to watch or chat as I piss. Go figure. 

"You came to fuck me."

"Well that too. But with this THING going on, I wanted to get back. Needed to."

"So you just got back last night?"

"Not really."

I raise an eyebrow to him. I kind of hurts. Come to think of it, my whole body hurts. But not necessarily in a bad way. 

"What really?" I prompt when Tim doesn't continue right away.

He might have been distracted by my cock. It happens.

"I had to self isolate for awhile."

"Define awhile." I turn, squeezing past him to wash my hands.

"Two weeks." His voice goes higher on the last word, like it was a question. So it's either up-speak or he's uncomfortable with where this is going.

I nod, letting him continue at his own pace. 

"Anyone coming into the country had to do this."

I FUCKING KNOW THAT. 

But it's not that it was a requirement that's bothering me. 

He's safe. He's fine.

"So two nights ago, when we were video conferencing--" I can't believe he was here, only blocks away, "--you lied to me."

He doesn't move a muscle. 

"You let me believe you were still in London."

"I couldn't tell you. You would have come over."

"I'm not that stupid, Timmy."

"No you're not." He concedes. 

"So why all the subterfuge?"

"Bad judgement?"

"No shit."  
__

"So what do you want to do today?"

"We could stay in and make wild COVID love."

"How does that differ from what we're doing now?"

"There's masks and gloves involved." He laughs.

Sounds like a plan.

"I have a whole box of black leather gloves in my bags." He tilts his head towards the door.

I look over at the vestibule to see Timmy's impressive collection of designer luggage. The lad doesn't travel light.  
__  
__

Later that morning I bring up the gloves again, not quite shaking the logistics of how Tim has procured an endless supply.

He reclines on the sofa, his nude form reminiscent of a beautiful classic painting. 

Crawling in beside, I grab the remote, using it as a distraction. 

"Those gloves you got," I pause for effect, "you're going to have a shitload of left handed ones left over and no pairs."

"And this is a problem?" Tim laughs.

I shrug.

"I'll tell you a secret." He lowers his voice in a conspiratorial way, "I've already requested more pairs because I've been jacking off with them ever since the photo shoot."

Well fuck me.

"You could donate the left ones." 

"Or maybe I could hand them out to fans at the DUNE premiere."

"Only left ones?"

"It's not like they'll all go on social media to compare notes."

Then again.......  
___  
___

■ FIN - HOTEL 7.1 New York Minute - Minute by Minute   
___  
___


	2. 7.2 One Step Forward, Two Steps Back - A Cop, a Pirate and a twink walk into a bar..

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys settle into domestic bliss in Armie's cramped apartment while Tim has ordered way too much furniture for their new loft space. And Armie feels slightly violated when Tim kind of but not really roofies him with leftover Viagra from their trip to Cabo. 
> 
> (Yes Cabo. This was written before Tim's little sojourn down Mexico way.)

■ HOTEL 7.2 - MOVING FORWARD  
■ Part 1 - One Step Forward, Two Steps Back  
■ Part 2: A Cop, a Pirate and a Twink walk into a bar.....  
___

■ Part 1 - One Step Forward, Two Steps Back  
___  
___

"Hey asshole, you went and broke the internet."

He doesn't even look up from the book he's reading.

So I try again; keeping it light in a purely non-confrontational way, but stressing he should take at least some responsibility for breaking the fucking internet.

"I mean really, I don't give a fuck what you look like but your stans are -"

"Fuck the stans." Armie grumbles.

I know he doesn't care but he's got to have some self-awareness. I mean the images from the video alone, followed by that demented cackle at the end makes me think of another place, another time when things weren't going along as well as they should have been.

But more importantly, it's the now that concerns me.

And that THING sitting on his head couldn't have been all his own hair. And even if it was (I mean really!), it's practically expected that I raze him about it.

So I go with that.

"Where did you find that ridiculous merkin?" That's a good start, plus I really want to know.

Because his hair just isn't that long and curly on top. And we don't have one around here; not one of those, I'd know about THAT; and we're on lock down so where --

Then it dawns on me, he wouldn't have ordered one. Would he?

"Don't tell me the Amazon guy has been here." I venture a guess.

"What else can I do but buy shit online?" He still seems distracted.

"I leave you alone for one evening and I get THIS!" I point to his head.

That was a fucking unexpected surprise! And I can only describe it as somewhere in between a really hot, quasi Mr T, with a touch of the Village People for good luck.

Circling around, I take in the beard and the hair, and realise it's still him.

And what's the saying about all cats looking the same in the dark? Maybe I'll just keep the lights off until it grows out.

(Although, that tuff on top would make a good handle for when he's sucking me off.)

Just saying.

I sigh, licking my lips, cultivating a mental image of just that.

"You're not getting any of this," Armie dramatically sweeps his hand over his nether regions, "if you keep that up."

Yeah, he's completely onto me.

And this is where I have to laugh because there's no way he can keep his hands off of all the deliciousness that is Timmy Chalamet, let alone deny anyone sex. Especially himself.

Don't get me wrong about his new look. I love it, or will grow to tolerate it. But I have to keep it real.

We all have our triggers and some people would think Armie's would be digs about his looks, but he's not vain (far from it), and any drama only really starts when he fucks up and I call him on it.

My drama is more if I fuck up and the world calls me on it. Although personally, Armie doesn't give a fuck about the world, it's me he's more concerned about.  
___

It wasn't that long ago, when Armie was trying to talk me down from that debacle of misspelling Laurence.

I was tired, and the more I thought about it... well there should have been a W in there... somewhere. I mean really.

But bad went to worse when I was called on it and I took it out on Armie.  
___

"It's not the end of the world." He stated, trying to find some humour in the situation.

But I was done, slamming my phone down on the side table before heading back to our kitchen island where I sat in brooding silence, flipping through magazine after magazine, completely engrossed in the fancy pictures on glossy pages that I insisted we replicate in the loft.

My brow was furrowed when I finally feel like acknowledging him, "Are you going to sit there all day fucking around on your phone watching those stupid ASMR videos, or are you going to get your ass in here and help me with this."

Ok, maybe I was still pissed. Not at him. Not really - but more pointedly at his cavalier attitude towards the incident and my resulting embarrassment.

And it wasn't even a question but a summons, and if he wanted a peaceful afternoon he better get his ass in here and help me. Pronto.  
___

"Look at this," I told him, pointing to the spread in Architectural Digest. "If Gerard Butler can do it, I don't see why -."

"So we're switching from Medieval Dungeon Chic to Renaissance Villa halfway through construction?" He didn't have to say it but I knew there was an, "I think not!" on the end. Actually it's closer to, "Are you out of your fucking mind," but I'm choosing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

So I looked up at him, eyelashes batting, lips pouting, "Maybe." Where I tilted my head in Elio-esque fashion for good measure, but he wasn't taking the bait.

"You're going to have to do better than that."

My attempt to placate him with my boyish charm had failed but he wasn't mad or upset in any way, just resolute. And determined to keep costs down.

Fuck it's not as if I'm making major changes; only a few heavy beams here and there. A chandelier to rival Versailles, some hardwood or imported tiles for the entryway. Wall colour will have to change; the chairs I picked out won't do anymore. But that's about it.

Maybe I'll have to rethink this.  
___

◇  
___

That was days ago and I'm still on the fence about any changes that will extend the time before we can move out of Armie's small apartment and into the loft.

It's bittersweet by the way.

I know I'll miss his profanity laced tirade every time he hits his head on the bathroom light fixture. (He really should know to duck by now.)

But no.

Every fucking time he goes in there, especially at night, it hits him right in the face. That's how he puts it.

The light attacks HIM.

And he's become quite inventive in his curses. No mf this or mf that. He tries to change it up in several languages, but if you ask me, he's just making up shit.

I, on the other hand, have had no such problem with these obstacles.

So I do what really sets him off by walking right underneath. And I do. I walk to the john, the sink, the shower, all without mishap.

I sometimes make several unnecessary trips under it (when he's around), just to make my point. He's freakishly tall.

And I can still laugh about it when he flexes his shoulders in a Hulk-like way, making himself even bigger, trying to intimidate me with his size, which makes me laugh even harder.

You see, his outrage is unwarranted and entirely bogus.

He wants me, and he can't fucking hide it.

Well hello.

No hiding THAT.

I look down and there it is, like a fucking light-saber, except it doesn't glow in the dark. Well, that one time in Cabo with the florescent condoms, but we don't talk about that anymore.  
__

My little peccadillo about his enormous proportions (pun intended), doesn't even come close to stopping him from nailing me in the shower every chance he gets.  
___

◇  
___

"Oomph! Motherfucker!"

Speaking of getting nailed.

He's in here, and even with the water running, Armie knows I can hear him; moving about in the confines of the small room, making a big deal out of an essential morning ritual.  
___

And pulling back the curtain, he's revealed himself as this big, and on this day, hung over, bleary eyed, handsome son-of-a-bitch, who's about to ravish me in the shower.

So while the piss poor water pressure here is something that will be rectified within the construction of the new loft, it has little effect on my enthusiasm of being pounded so thoroughly from the inside.

And believe me, everything gets clean. Armie is very comprehensive on that account.

The hard tile on the floor is also something I wish to upgrade with the new renovation with maybe using something wood or bamboo instead to cushion --

Then all thoughts of decor fly from my head as I drop to my knees, trying to convey a semblance of ardor while still balancing on the unavoidably uncomfortable surface.

My lips, plump and slightly bruised from his ravaging morning kisses, surround his cock drawing him into the point where Armie rises up on his toes, fingers tunnelling into my hair.

And with spit and saliva running down my chin, I take him deep into my throat, swallowing around the head; my tongue tracing just under the frenulum all the way down the predominant vein to his sac in a way that always gets him hot and bothered and where he can't help but spin me around to stuff his raging member up my tight ass.

I groan, taking in great gulps of air as my hands reach out to splay against the shower wall, his cock tunneling up inside, hitting me right fucking THERE.

His large body driving me and my cock into the tile; slamming into me again and again; his hands grasping mine, anchoring me as he plummets me into a quivering incoherent mess.

Sagging between his body and the wall (to the point where it's all I can do but remain upright), I admit to myself that this is the only place I want to be. Not necessarily the venue, but up close and personal with the man I love.

Because -

This is, for now, home.  
_____

◇◇  
_____  
___

● Armie:  
___

They delivered the furniture to the loft the other day.

We didn't have to be there as the custodian let them in; but we do have to get over at some point to reposition everything and remove all the coverings. And to christen all the horizontal surfaces.

It has, and always will be, an essential part of a home coming.  
___

Isolation has been a hectic time with Timmy being a busy little beaver; coordinating shit so we can move in asap - or more to the point, yesterday.

But with construction incomplete, and not everything close to being done, many finishings and a great deal of the decorating have yet to be completed. Although much of that is still up for debate, as in, he wants something and I have to say no.  
___

So today, with Brian and Tim currently involved in yet another video conference with the producers of the Dylan flick, discussing schedules that have been pushed back, locations that are no longer available, and timelines sent to hell; what was going to be a quick and easy shoot has evolved into something resembling the debacle that was Heavens Gate.

But without the dead horses. I hope.

Grabbing my keys, I leave him to it; using the opportunity to take a look at all the stuff that's been delivered. Just a look mind you. Because if Timmy thinks I'm dragging that shit around all on my own, he's got another thing coming.  
___

At some point between the pygmy-palace and the new space, I notice a couple of small scratches on my wrist. How they got there, I have no fucking idea, but I take a picture, and just as I'm about to send it to Tim, I get an even brighter idea of posting it online, thinking it might even get me some sympathy from the masses who have to know what a fucking disaster these past few months have been.  
___

Just as I'm putting the key into the new lock, my phone rings; George Harrison's My Sweet Lord warbling in my pocket.

"You must be mighty proud of your war wounds." I can hear the barely suppressed laughter in Tim's voice.

"How is that?" If he's going to be busting my balls about something, I'd like to know what exactly he's referring to.

"The scratches."

"What about them?" I still don't get it and I'm just basically having fun with the fans who think I'm holed up and somehow suffering during this shutdown.

"Never mind." He says, clearly not about to broach whatever is on his mind over the phone.

I absolutely hate when he gets that way, so ignoring him, I get on with my home inspection.  
___

The sight when the double doors finally open, revealing the contents of our new abode, have me seriously considering leaving the little shit.

But then who would I get to fuck me when the feeling's right.  
___

◇  
___

"Hey, you went out." Tim barely looks up from my desktop.

"You called ME earlier to bust my balls. You knew I was gone."

"Oh yeah, right." Tim seems preoccupied with whatever went on with his video conference.

"I was checking on the new loft space. Ring a bell?"

"Mmm." Then it dawns on him, "Without me?" It's almost a squeak.

Then he's back checking his phone, providing yet another distraction.

"You were busy. And there's fuck all to do here."

Fucking look at me.

"How does it look?" He's distracted by whoever's texting.

"Pretty damned good. But then you should know." I'm smug in knowing he's well and truly caught.

"What?" He's still not paying attention.

"You know." I raise an eyebrow to him.

"I should know what?" He looks so damned innocent; but then he's a great actor with a fucking Oscar nomination.

"You went there before me." I accuse, wanting to put my hands on my hips, but refrain from the dramatics.

This is akin to him jumping ahead of our binge watching schedule.

Unforgivable.

Tim shrugs, ending the connection. That was short. Who was it?

"What?"

"Your fucking nuts." Did I raise my voice? Maybe.

"Don't insult me." He finally puts his phone down.

"Not you are. Your."

He still doesn't get it. Or he's bluffing.

Do I have to spell it out? Apparently yes.

"There's fucking pistachio shells all over the new sofa."

Actually sofas. Plural.

"So?"

"You were there."

"Well yeah. So what?" Cheeky bastard.

I'd be pulling out my hair, if I still had hair. But it's my turn now to give him a blank stare.

"I noticed you didn't ask, 'which sofa'." I believe the boy has a lot of explaining to do.

Tim finally gets it. And the Oh my God look on his face is priceless.  
___

He realizes I know he's ordered twice the furniture we need. And knowing him, I'm not completely convinced it was by accident. And if so, does he really want to fight about them a second time around?

When I'm one-hundred percent sure I have his undivided attention, I get in his face

"I want you to get a piece of paper", if we fucking have any paper here, "and write a hundred times, 'I will not use my boyfriend's credit card ever again', and maybe, fucking maybe, we can get past this fucking snafu you've created."

"Husband." He holds up his left hand, wiggling his ring finger.

I'm silent for a minute where Tim thinks that gives him license to continue his little journey off topic.

"And nowhere in those vows did it say I had to obey. Or even pretend to obey." He huffs.

And this is where Tim now has the balls to turn his back on me, walking the short distance into our bedroom.

"You seem to have a very short memory as to where you got those scratches you've been bragging about." He turns on me when I misjudge the situation and follow.

Tim reaches under the bed to grab, then throw, the heavy pair of handcuffs my way.

"Remember these? Or better still, remember last night?" He says as the metal clanks on the floor.

To say Timmy is a bit pissed might also be an understatement.

So yes, I do recall the events of last night. Although they were a bit blurry to me earlier in the day, they are coming clearer to me now.  
___

◇▪︎◇  
___  
___

■ HOTEL 7.2 (b) MOVING FORWARD  
■ A Cop, a Pirate and a Twink walk into a bar.....

Fourteen hours earlier  
___

● Timmy:  
_____

Opening up yet another set of boxes, I find even more of Armie's shit. And he says I'm the clothes horse!

You see, although they were delivered to the loft three days ago, Armie doesn't even seem to be aware, and I have to figure at least some of them must belong to me. But a half dozen boxes in and I'm yet to find one with my name on it, let alone anything that I could bogart as my own.

Freakishly big and tall does that. The shoes, pants and jackets are all HUGE! Even the belts are too big.

But that doesn't stop me from borrowing them.

On the other hand I can't quite picture Armie traipsing around in any of my Stella McCartney's.

I notice there is another box inside the one containing his belts and a few gigantic pairs of dress shoes.

Opening it up, I reach in, and to my surprise there lies a pair of metal handcuffs (amongst other things). Not the padded leather kind like in our toy box, but real honest to God, Police Issue cuffs.

Taking opportunity where I find it, I slip them into my back pocket before sifting through more of our shit they've delivered from storage.  
_____

◇◇  
_____

"You cooked!" I reach up to kiss his cheek as Armie serves up two of the rarest steaks I've seen in a long time.

Baked potatoes, grilled vegetables and a suspiciously, and perhaps professionally made salad complete the meal; I really can't see him slicing and dicing everything that's so beautifully laid out.

But I could be wrong. I was gone a long time.

"Sit." He indicates one of the stools at the counter as he plates our meal;  
sliding a colourful placemat under the hot platter.

It looks, and smells really good.

This almost makes up for not finding any of my shit at the loft.

Armie saunters around the bar with a beer in one hand and a rum and coke in the other; taking a long swig before setting them beside our meal.

He's remembered what I like.

"Yeah." He smiles, as if reading my mind.

We eat in companionable silence, my knife cutting through the steak; not at all mentioning how bloody it is.

"It's good." I tell him when he asks if it's over cooked.

"Rare is best," he says. "Blue enough to moo."

I make a face, shoving the meat around on my plate.

Armie laughs, "I have dessert too."

"Are you saying I have to finish my dinner to get a treat?" I say it teasingly but he should know by now that treating me like I'm five gets him nowhere.

"Don't eat it. I don't care."

Well if he wants to put it that way, and get pissy if I don't love everything put in front of me, I'll show him and eat the whole fucking thing.

"Bring me a beer too." I tell him when he gets up for another.

If I have to eat a bloody cow, then I want something to wash it down. And not my fucking Top Shelf Rum.

Setting my utensils on my empty plate, I chug down the last of my beer, slamming the bottle down.

See, I want to say, all done.

Now where's my fucking dessert!

But there's no sign of any sweets, which is probably good, because as he well knows, sweets aren't my thing.

But it's the fucking principle of it and he did promise.

Armie gathers up the plates to set them in the sink; confirming he's still a tidy motherfucker. But with no help coming in, who could blame him.

"Come on." He takes my hand, leading me into the living area.

And there in a fancy inlaid box on the coffee table is a great amount of weed. Greater than the last time I checked.

"You got a new stash."

"Yep. All acceptably socially distanced of course."

"Meaning?"

"I called my guy and no bodily fluids were exchanged."

I should fucking hope not!  
___

◇  
___

I think my eyeballs are floating out of my head, either that or my head is no longer attached to the rest of me. No. Come to think of it, I'm going with the eyeballs thing as Armie is now floating around with them.

I'm comfortably mellow and more than a little buzzed.

"You're wasted."

I nod, giving him a goofy smile.

"Fucking lightweight." He laughs.

"Your fucking lightweight." I tell him, not realizing at first that I've sagged against him.

But I settle in as Armie wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me even closer.

I get a feeling there's something I want to tell him, but for the life of me, I can't remember.

Maybe later.  
___

I'm more alert when he gets up to grab each of us another beer, plopping down a giant bowl of popcorn onto my lap. Taking the remote, he begins to channel surf before deciding on something from the NatGeo channel.

It takes me minute before I realize we're watching his excursion into the wild with Bear Grylls.  
___

I can't help it, I'm laughing like a banshee, ready to piss my pants, as Armie compares the narrow caves to a fucking birth canal. As if he knows what one looks like!

Come to think of it, he should have said it was more like a prolapsed colon. And even though that visual is rather gross, it's more accurate, more relatable, and more to the point.

With that romantic image in mind, I lean in to kiss and actually hit the bull's-eye.

His mouth, not his asshole.

Although given time, I'll get us there.  
_____

◇◇  
_____  
___

● Armie  
___

Tim went to the john a while ago, and when he doesn't come back, I find him blissfully stretched out in our bedroom. Or more to the point collapsed face down on our bed.

Turning him over, I find he's adorably serene; although he will require some special Hammer TLC to get him alert and to the point where we can finish off our evening in the way I'd intended.

So leaning down to pull at the cuffs of Timmy's unhemmed blue jeans, he perks up and I can attest he's become more wiggly and giggly as the night has progressed.

He moans slightly, but is pretty compliant, all things considered, while I remove the rest of his clothing.

Propping him up against the headboard, I leave to get something from the frig; returning to find him in exactly the same spot. Thank God for that; you just never know what's going to happen when he's this buzzed.

"Open wide." I tell him, tipping the bottle to make sure he at least drinks a little bit of the water.

Where Timmy laughs; sputtering liquid all over the place, "You going to roofie me?"

"Not exactly." I answer; trying for sardonic instead of falling for his impish manner.

But Tim still thinks it's hilarious.

"Come on roooooofie meeeee." He whines.

I give him a tolerant look. Drunk and high Timmy can be my very favorite, next to drunk, high and naked Timmy - which he is now.

I recall one memorable night in Crema when I had to tackle our drunk, high and very naked boy before he fell off a balcony, singing at the top of his lungs something about flying to the moon.

We were vetting some Sinatra songs and Timmy, in all his naked glory, thought it was fucking hilarious to try to walk along, then jump off the railing.

There's no such hazards here, but I'm keeping a close eye on him just in case.

Tim keeps mumbling, "me me me me", and if I wasn't on a mission to sober him up to fuck him, I'd be taking video to show him later.

He always thinks he's the stable one in all this. That it's me who he's always rescuing.

Silly boy.

Chugging the last of the bottle, the ice cold water swirling in my mouth gives me the impetus to press my lips to his forehead, his cheeks and finally his mouth.

He feels hot under my ministrations; my lips trailing over too warm skin; my tongue now licking at the roof of his mouth, trying to at least get him more alert, more aware.

He seems distressed at the cold, so to allay his fears, I kiss his lips again before swooping my head down his chest, my cool tongue tickling at his breast bone, sliding over too prominent ribs, then heading south to swirl around his navel.

He wiggles further up on the bed, his feet trying to find purchase so he can raise his ass, and by extension shove his cock into my mouth.

Even when he's drunk and high, Timmy's baser instincts take over and do the thinking for him. That, and there's not much blood running through his body other than to his cock so I'm guessing it's a typical animal response to arousal.

Glancing upward before I take him into my mouth, I see his eyes are now closed, but he's still humming. And I promise myself, I'll get him fucking more than humming before I'm done with him.  
_____

◇◇  
_____

Holy fuck, what was that?

I felt Tim move awhile ago; probably his bladder telling him it was time to get up after all the liquid he'd consumed. I'd also made such a trip, banging my head into that infernal light fixture; but only after lying there, staring up at the ceiling for an interminable amount of time.

Stress associated with quarantine and perennial insomnia will do that; although I must say Ambien does help.

I must have dozed off afterwards, because when I next try to move my arm, I find it's been surreptitiously hauled over my head with a sturdy cuff attached to the headboard.

I had noticed something heavy in his back pocket last night but was too involved in getting him naked to investigate.

My bad.

My. Really. Bad.  
__

"Open wide." He says.

I'm looking at Tim sitting there with one beautiful eye covered, looking like a pirate in sheep's clothing; actually no clothing at all, except for the eye-patch.

"Open. Wide." He repeats in a sing song voice as if I were a toddler eating creamed peas off a spoon disguised as an airplane.

He props my head up with one hand while the other tips the glass to my lips.

"You going to roofie me?" I ask around a big swallow, my head swimming, my eyes not quite focusing as I grimace at the unexpected burn.

I'm expecting the words, "Not exactly."

But he smiles widely, replying with a "yes." Or at least I think he said yes.

I digest the information, silently wondering if he's fucking with me, or if I'm just about to experience something I have no control over.

"Open." He tells me again.

But this time it's not the glass he sets to my mouth but his own lips, in a kiss that is thorough and deep, and full of illicit promises topped off with a splash of Rye.

And if my cock wasn't twitching in anticipation, I would wonder if I was dreaming the whole fucking thing.

Moving slightly, I shift my weight to my other side to get Timmy, who has plastered himself to me, centered on my body.

"Whoa, cowboy." He laughs, sitting up with his legs straddling me, his knees digging tightly into my sides.

His cock is hard and leaking onto my stomach while Tim, with one hand begins stroking himself, his ass grinding hard into my groin.

His movements become faster, more frantic, as his other hand presses into my shoulder; his one eye closing in arousal, foretelling of his impending little death.

His strong fingers talon into my shoulder, his whole body tensing as he leans up, rocketing to orgasm, his cum hitting my chest in hot splashes.

And the roar that comes from deep inside him rivals that of a great beast just before he devours his prey.

It's proprietary.

And as he rolls beside me, I anticipate this wild ride is far from over.

It takes him a moment or two to recover while I lay there bound to the headboard.

"Was it good for you dear?" I ask, chuckling at his total abandonment of any sense of decorum. Or at least reciprocity.

Tim chuckles as well, but it's dark and I see it more as macabre.

"Close your eyes and think of peaches." He tells me, moments before his mouth devours my cock.

And my eyes do not just close, but roll back into my head as his soft mouth encompasses my erection.

He sucks and swirls and swallows around the head, and everything he's doing has me moaning behind his free hand that he has now clamped over my mouth.

He swallows me down to the root, something that has taken time and patience to perfect but I must say what he's doing right now, at this very moment, is indeed perfection.

I can't help but move under him as my body, of its own volition, bucks on the bed. The sensation of being partially immobile with his hot mouth doing things only Timmy can, is something I thank the gods for every single day.

Tim leans back, and the hand he's removed from my face reaches beside to grab his discarded underware to - and I say this with very little trepidation - apply a very resourceful gag.

My olfactory senses are in Timmy overload.

The sweetness, the overall pungency, combined with the tartness of him, Tim, overwhelm me. They make an already combustible erection something ready to explode at any moment.

And that moment better be right fucking now.  
__

Tim's long slim fingers detour to slide through the puddle of cum on my chest, gathering up his generous load, examining the evidence with one winking eye to then press into my winking eye.

My body goes rigid as I try my damndest to soften and allow for a seamless entry.

My knees pull up, my feet landing flat, my arm stretched past what is comfortable as my ass rises up off the bed. Timmy's fingers press deeply inside, one finger swirling around the ring to then wiggle inside, two others following suit as the pressure builds.

He rolls over me onto my side; my leg bent up to facilitate better access; my body pretzeled into uncomfortable contortions; my own free hand clutching at bedding that tears under my hold. And this has gone way beyond any kind of fantasy.

Although this is no fucking fantasy.

My ass. My cock.

Both receiving his attention.

His mouth now devouring me as his fingers repeatedly jab into my now pliant hole. Then turning his hand sideways he adds a fourth.

And the breadth almost undoes me.

The stretch this early in the day, without any weed to soften the edges, is extraordinary.

And his mouth.

Holy fuck what he's doing with his mouth!  
__

I echo his beastly roar as a total tsunami hits me; my body twisting and bucking on the bed. And Tim's mouth never leaves me as he swallows around, containing every drop. The little vibrations of his throat, kissing me as I cum harder than I believe I ever have before.  
__

"Was it good for you dear?" Tim is smug, mimicking my own question.

But I'm not done. My erection has not flagged and I feel we can go on indefinitely as Tim rolls me into my back to climb aboard, riding me to yet another mind blowing orgasm.

______

◇▪︎◇  
______

I can't believe I'd blocked out what happened last night. Or blacked out might have been a better description.

Tim stands there waiting as the realization hits me that those tiny scratches are not so mysterious after all.

Turning the cuffs over in my hand, I weigh them, weighing the possibilities, and the probabilities that several mind-blowing occurrences must have happen last night.

Then absent-mindedly rubbing the abrasion on the inside of my wrist, I begin to recall those elusive events that were a mere blur earlier today.

And if I didn't know better I'd think Tim had drugged me. He didn't, did he?

Or better still; he wouldn't.

But things are still foggy. I could blame the weed. And the case of beer that's gone missing from the frig. The night cap that turned into three could also be the culprit, although I've been known to have a hollow leg so that's no fucking excuse.

"Is it coming back to you?" Tim asks.

Yeah, vaguely.

"Did you drug me?" I ask.

"Not exactly."

"How fucking not exactly?"

"Not drugs. Medication."

I'm not liking what I'm hearing.

"Remember that time in Cabo?" Tim continues.

"I'm not senile, of course I remember."

"How we fucked for days?"

I nod.

Or at least it seemed like days. Yeah. That was one "excellent" vacation. We'd watched a ton of stoner movies and fucked till our dicks fell off. Well maybe not that, but I never thought I'd get enough of Tim until we had that three day marathon.

I didn't remember too much after that either. But I didn't black out.

Not then anyway.

"And what do you think I brought back with me?"

"I don't need Viagra to fuck you." I'm adamant about that. Nothing wrong with my dick.

"No you don't."

"Timmy...."

"We split one okay. I put it in the drink we shared."

"And you didn't think drugging me against my will was wrong?"

"Medicating."

"Medicating. Fuck Timmy what else did you give me?"

"Nothing. I swear."

Okay. I believe him. Then fucking why was I so fucked up.

"So let me get this straight. You did not roofie me but we did split an erectile dysfunction medication."

Tim nods, smiling that I've finally got it.

"But I blacked out."

"I had nothing to do with that." But he smiles with the realization that he's probably fucked me into a coma.

"And you handcuffed me." I shouldn't be so indignant, we'd done it before with *excellent* results.

"I found those in your boxes."

"Boxes?" I'm puzzled.

"The ones in the bedroom in the new loft."

I hadn't looked in there. The living room was as far as I got with all that furniture piled up (and visions of our bills piling up).

Tim is not fiscally responsible.

"Where did you get that eye-patch?" I venture the question because I kind of recall seeing one beautiful green eye winking at me. So I think he was probably wearing one. I wasn't all that fucked up. Was I?

Tim laughs. "It's not mine. I found it in the box with the cuffs."

"Movie memorabilia." I nod, recalling where I got it.

"Stuff you stole."

"Let's call it conveniently borrowed." Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

The eye-patch was Depp's but I don't tell Timmy that. Life is weird enough.

Tim looked great, dashing even, in a roguish kinda way, although I'd never tell him that. Some things you just don't encourage.

"So are you going to tell everyone exactly how you got those scratches?"

"No I am not." I'm adamant about that; I want to keep at least some things private.

I mean, I'm proud to say that Tim is my partner, but people don't need to know about that kind of shit.

"Did I tell you the joke I heard the other day?" I ask, changing the topic away from dangerous territory.

Tim looks at me like I'm going to be an asshole about this.

"Well you see," I pause for effect, "a cop, a pirate, and a twink walk into a bar ..."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Tim tackles me as we both fall to the bed.

"Okay, forget the joke," I hold his hands over his head, "let's see how you like being cuffed to the bed."

"Oh daddy, will you wear the eye-patch too?" He teases, wiggling free. His question takes my breath away as he quickly disrobes, flopping backward onto the bed, both his hands gripping the headboard.

Fuck, I love him so much!

"If you're going to be so fucking adorable, I'll wear anything you want."

And it's true. I'd do anything for him.  
___

◇  
___

Heading into the john, I rummage around, looking for a new bottle of lube. And spotting our facemasks, I grab a couple because you never know what uses they can be turned into.

I take a moment to check our medicine cabinet. To count every single Viagra we have left. And notice the Ambien bottle beside.

I won't tell him I took a couple last night. I'm not that fucking stupid.

But I will stop accusing him of drugging me.  
___

Tim has already cuffed himself to the bed.

The eye-patch? Well I think you can imagine where he's put that.

This COVID thing is going to keep us quarantined for awhile longer but I can say with the upmost certainty, it will not be fucking boring.  
___

■ FIN 7.2 Moving Forward - Two Steps Forward - A Cop, a pirate and a twink

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___


	3. HOTEL 7.3 PROUD - PASSAGES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Tim reminisce about their time in Cabo in May of 2019: their mile-high experience getting there and the assorted toys Tim's sister, Pauline, has provided for their honeymoon stay in paradise. 
> 
> NOTE: This whole story idea was prompted by a message thanking Boots Riley for getting Armie to say "horse cock" in Sorry to Bother You.

___

■ ☆ Disclaimer: this is a fictional depiction of the two actors (and other peripheral characters) mentioned within the following storyline  
___  
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7.3 PROUD  
___  
___

That's the first word that comes to mind.

PROUD.

And I've got to admit I'm fucking busting at the seams as he sits there watching the ceremony online.

Looking over his shoulder, I notice # statistics is now trending. It's good he has a sense of humor about this; that he's got past it, even though it used to be brought up every fucking time he was interviewed.

Not so much now, but it still rears its ugly head.

And I'm biased.

He's so much more.

Everybody fucking knows that. He's got to know that. Right?

___

And all this subterfuge was done on the q.t..

Tim's phone was lighting up at all hours; interrupting even our most private moments with texts that had me wondering if he's decided to graze in other pastures. If some other fucking bull, or God forbid heifer, had caught his eye.

But it was the freaking President of the United States on the other end.

Or his people anyway.

Or LeBron. Probably LeBron.  
___

Tim hadn't said diddly squat about this until the other day. And then he name drops the f-ing PRESIDENT.

"Barack's office wants to know - "

Wait! What?

Tim must have seen my incredulous look because he starts again without the name drop.

"They wanted to know if I can do a thing for something they're planning."

"Hold on, you don't call him Barack."

I didn't think to ask what they were planning because I trust Brian not to put him in the difficult position of having to do something hideous. So while I don't trust him to keep his nose out of our business, I do trust him in this.

"He calls me Tim." He says, smirking.

Waiting for me to take the bait.

But I wasn't born yesterday.

"And you call him?" I can't leave it alone.

"Mr President. I'm not a heathen."

I smile at that. If only the world knew what he was capable of.

Not his talent. That's not up for debate.

But he can be a conniving little bastard when he wants to be.

Case in point, Viagra-Gate.  
___

"He wanted to know if I was still living with that Tiger King guy." Tim continues the ruse.

Okay, now I know he's fucking with me.

"And you said?" But I play along.

"I said yeah, but he's thinking of divorcing me because I leave pistachio shells in the sofa cushions."

"That will never happen. You're too good a lay for that. And if I ever do, divorce you that is, it won't be because of the shells."

"You sweet talker you. And by the way, if you ever get that pissed at me, just close your eyes and think of Cabo."

___

Ahhh, Cabo.

That fucking lost weekend.  
___  
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● Somewhere over Mexico - May 2019  
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■ Timmy:

Who knew a private plane could be so accommodating?

The flight crew didn't bat an eye when Armie oh so romantically kissed my hand before escorting me to the small bedroom off the private bath.

Who am I kidding?!

He waited until the steward turned his back, threw me over his shoulder and, like a caveman, hauled me into the confined space.

But the steward knew.

How could he not? A six foot five guy throws his much younger lover over his shoulder, almost concussing that younger lover I might add, and no one notices? Give me a fucking break!

And another thing I can't believe is that we were never members of the mile high club before this. At least not with each other.

And I would have had something to say about that, but for the fact that I had his cock in my mouth as soon as he slid the door shut.

No worries there, when one opportunity begets another.  
__

Armie squirms under my care as I push his pants down over his ass; one finger sliding between his legs, circumventing his sac to press just THERE.

He squirms even more, emitting a loud groan when I tunnel upward past the first joint.

"Shhh."

That will teach him to get me started in a not so private space.

He lightly braces his hands on my head as I bob in a rhythm old as time, my tongue swirling, as my mouth fucking sucks him off like there's no tomorrow.

But tomorrow there was.

Oh my fucking God!

The opulence of our little getaway was not lost on me.

But we were celebrating.

Three years to the day - not the day they started shooting - but the very day he burst into my piano lesson unannounced.

"This has all the markings of an excellent anniversary." Armie had stated when he could finally speak.

But we really didn't know just how excellent it would turn out to be.

Not until we got to our hotel room and found the anniversary 'gift basket' my friends had flown in for us.

Well some of it was flown in. I don't think the large amount of weed nicely gift wrapped in day-old newspaper with a string tied around it could ever have passed customs.

Armie laughed as he unwrapped the 'gift'.

"Lakeith."

"What?" I asked, not quite grasping his thought process.

"Fucker owes me for stealing my shit."

"He didn't steal it." I tell him, knowing Armie still can't get past what happened. "He thought it was a gift."

I smile up at him, thinking this particular gift was going to come in fucking handy in the not too far distant future.

Armie, in the best of times, is probably the most inhibited human being on the planet. Get him high on some prime Bubba Kush and he rockets right to another level of depravity.  
__  
__

"You lubed." I'd mumbled around his cock; then mindful of the steward on the other side of the door, I not so ceremoniously climbed up onto the bed.

"Yeah." Armie affirms my suspicion. "I wanted to be ready in case they did a cavity search."

I can tell he's only half teasing.

Armie tilts my head backwards, climbing aboard to straddle my shoulders, his big dick grazing my face, bumping my nose, his precum anointing me even before he sidles his cock home.

I reach up, putting my hands on is ass, fingers cupping his cheeks as he starts the repetitive in and out of the face fuck; each lingering penetration going just a little bit deeper so his balls are soon bumping up against my forehead.

69-ing on the zillion count sheets in the private suite was, if not actually private, at least eminently enjoyable.

Having my cock slide oh so effortlessly into Armie as he lay deceptively supplicated on his stomach (while we're soaring 35,000 feet in the air), can only be described as, like the ad said back in the 80's, priceless.  
__

But that pricelessness was slightly mitigated by the fucking feeling the flight crew was contacting the media - which of course they weren't, but the feeling was there, that somehow my mother would get a Google alert that her youngest child was pounding the King of Tiger's into oblivion within the luxurious confines of a private jet somewhere over Mexico.  
__  
__

And now, without any time constraints, and with our bags still standing at the door, and I might add, my darling sister's questionable gift basket sitting on the round table in the foyer, Armie pressed into me to the root while he practiced some weird assed tantric breathing shit. Shit he claims to have learned from a yogi to keep his dick harder for longer periods of time. But that must have been some fucking strange 'Bear' encounter is all I'm saying.

Although one could consider being pounded within an inch, or at least twelve inches, of your life, against the reinforced door of the hotel's bridal suite to be the icing on the cake of an eminently mind blowing flight from New York to Cabo.

And I have to tell you, I don't know if that Yogi Bear shit works, but the treasures nestled within the basket would sure help with the hardness of said dick and the penetration of assorted orifices.

Pauline must have had more than a few laughs as they picked out cock-rings, strings and the fucking massive dildo that looked suspiciously like a horses' cock.

And not to tell tales out of school, but I didn't think we'd ever use one like that before our lost weekend.

Although it's amazing what happens when you find they've also included a bottle of Viagra - and Armie lights up a vicious looking blunt.  
___  
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● Substance  
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■ Armie:

Well all things considered, flying in on a private jet was worth it.

Plus I didn't have to pay the full freight because it was a friend's ride heading back to Cabo anyways. But Tim doesn't have to know that.

He's thinking I'm a fucking magnanimous bastard as it us, we don't need to ruin his perfect image of me.

(As if he has that image in the first place.)

The gift basket in the hall that Tim's sister put together was a nice surprise considering she's warned me on several occasions, and in her own words, "not to fuck with my brother or I will fuck you up". And I believe her.

Tim and his sister didn't fall far from the tree. And even though Nicole has been nothing if not kind to me, and I often lay claim to being her favorite son (although not to her face because she scares the shit out of me - more than Pauline - but then that's not saying much); never the less, the relationship I have with Tim's mom is exponentially better than with my own mother.

Although I seriously don't think Pauline will ever let her mom get wind of the silicone battering ram that's the giant tent pole (pun intended) of the gift basket.

The thought of Tim's sister and his friends gathering all those goodies makes me squishy inside and not in the way you're thinking. (Come on people; get your minds out of the gutter!)  
__

It's still early (what with gaining two hours, and leaving in the middle of the night), so pinning Timmy against the door was my equivalent of the matrimonial gesture of carrying him over the threshold.

A purely counterfeit gesture due to the fact that we're definitely not married.

Can I claim jet lag in this or could it be we've become so comfortable in our routine, my inner clock sees this particular sunrise as the opportunity to relieve some of the pent up frustration of having to submit to him on the plane?

Okay, I lied. I fucking love it whenever Timmy tops, but the inner Tiger (King) in me needs the primal animal release that having my cock in Tim's asshole brings.  
__  
__

We then order breakfast, heading into the bedroom to unpack, only to find they've left rose petals on the bed and after checking out the john, more petals in a basket beside the giant tub.

Tim thinks it's hilarious while I tend to think they were aiming more for romantic.  
__

He's busy taking pics with his phone and I hope he's not thinking of sending them to anyone. Maybe it's just a memento. Sure we'll go with that.

There is a discreet knock at the door to indicate our breakfast is here, where a snappily dressed young man enters with a cart topped with epicurean delights.

Tim, never shy around food, and he plainly sees such delicacies as fuel, digs in right away. The boy will need substance, and a great deal of stamina for what I have planned.

He flops down on the rattan divan (say that ten times fast), hands clasped behind his head in an, "okay, now entertain me" way, that sets my teeth on edge.

So I ignore him to rifle through a gift basket that seems so well thought out you'd think they were somehow orchestrating our honeymoon.

Because this is definitely what it feels like.

"And what, pray tell, were we thinking of doing today?" Tim sing-songs, nodding towards the pile of gifts as I set each item aside.

Smart ass.

"Fucking you until you can't walk straight." I dead pan back to him.

But I'm really not joking. Especially after finding the bottle of Viagra tucked into the side of the basket of what has now become a master plan to spend three days inside of the most beautiful boy in the world.

Fuck sightseeing anyways.

We really don't need to go anywhere else.  
__

◇  
__

■ Timmy:

I'm going to fucking kill Giullian when I get back. Or my sister. Or Will.

Did he have a hand in this? Naw, it has to be either Giullian or Pauline.

And if the size and scope of the basket is any indication, probably them both.  
__

I cringe at the thought of them planning this together - let alone imagining them going out and shopping in person. (And visions of those two actually browsing in a sex shop is a joke.)

Shopping for intimate things we would actually use is far from hilarity - and something nightmares are made of.

I'm sure each of them had tried to outdo the other; and I'm not exactly sure, but the dildo from hell has Pauline's fingerprints all over it.

And I just know Giullian went for the Viagra. He's been busting my chops about Armie's age for as long as we've been together; although it's not that many years difference.

But he only knows what I tell him, which isn't much. I haven't gone into any detail of our proclivities, because frankly, nobody needs to know that shit.

And I have no doubt the two of them have cooked up this particular surprise together.  
__

I mean it is sweet of them to think of us, and I figure we'll have lots of fun exploring the basket - but I just hope Armie feels the same. Because -

In theory, it's a yes. In practicality, it could go either way.  
__  
__

"Your friends don't know shit about any of this stuff." Armie says, opening up another alarmingly devious package.

"Why's that?" I ask, completely humoring him at this point.

"They didn't include any cuffs --- or ropes." He sounds sad but I'm sure he can improvise. "Or lube." He continues, swinging the long set of connected balls over his shoulder.

"A mere oversight, I'm sure."

"One big, giant, oversight if you ask me." He says as he begins to sing something that takes me less than a few bars to realise it is his twisted rendition of "do your ears hang low", but he's substituted balls instead.

As I said, twisted.  
__

And Armie is quite accurate about the importance of lube, now that I see he's got the ginormous horse dong out of the package and is examining the mechanics.

Who the fuck buys these things? Although novelty items like this seem to be doing just fine in a certain markets.

I choose to ignore him while I check on our bags.

"I don't think they're positive we will use any of this. It's just a gag gift to them." I say over my shoulder, pulling the zipper on my suitcase.

I'm not planning to unpack our shit, I mean there's really no point in putting our clothing into a dresser, when frankly I don't see myself wearing much of it anyways and it's not like I'll see anything more than the lavish interior of the bridal suite while we're here.  
__

The room has suddenly become very quiet, and turning around to see what he's up to, my mouth gapes as I take in the sight of Armie trying to stuff the entire head of the horse-sized dong into his mouth.

He's like a kid in a candy store. And the shit he does when he thinks no one is looking is almost beyond anyone's comprehension.

(The shit he does when people are looking ain't too shabby either.)

And there I was worried he'd be pissed at all of this, when he's clearly enjoying some of the items included in the goodie basket.  
__  
__

"Mmmm." Armie passes the joint over to me, lips pursed before the exhale.

We've wandered out onto the patio where we can see the amazing shoreline; hear the seabirds that swoop in the sky while the mid day crowds that pepper the beach slowly thin out to escape from the heat.

Armie leans back against the railing, his long legs stretched out before him.

He's a sight to behold, even draped in a hotel bathrobe. And draped is a relative term as he's left the sash open, his hand clearly manipulating his cock.

We've had a bath, in the rose petals no less, because well they were provided and it was good to get the stench and grime off our bodies from travelling all the way across America.

That, and after our prurient activities on the plane, certain areas needed to be cleansed. And soaked.

Armie's grimace when the hot water hit his asshole, was a melodramatic reminder that he can indeed be a drama queen. And it was perhaps a subconscious (really?) tribute to my size and technique, and lastly, an indication (to me anyways) that perhaps I should be topping him more often.

Never the less, the bath was a wonderful romantic experience, as long a it lasted anyway.

And not to be outdone by the sentimentality of the moment, Armie makes a big production as he exits the tub of removing several wayward petals from his crack.

As I said - romantic.  
__

I grab the patio chair closest to the shade (as it's probaby the only time we'll get some sun while were here), where I wait to see how far Armie will let this salacious display go.

I don't believe anyone can see us but you never know what is going to show up on social media, let alone, God forbid, appear in an issue of the Enquirer.

Or People. People has that shit now too.

Damned long lenses.

You'd think after all the travelling and our various activities that Armie would be exhausted, but you'd have thought wrong.

He's like an x-rated Energizer Bunny in that regard.

And I've got to say, it is fucking hot.

(Especially if I don't picture him in a pink bunny suit.)

He handles himself quite well in most situations, here with his cock in hand, he's a fucking God.

Armie leans further back, eyes closed, taking another hit as his thumb circles his cock, spreading precum down his shaft to facilitate the glide. And I'd love to know what's going through his mind right now

He better be fucking thinking of me.  
__  
__

One part of me is itching to take hold of that loosened sash. To tie it around whatever I can tie it around. Or more to the point, whatever he wants me to tie it around.

Armie can be a sick mf.

But I love sick Armie. And drunk and high Armie. And extremely horny Armie.

And I've got to say, at this very moment, I think I've hit the Armie Hammer trifecta.  
__

I watch as his body tenses, balls drawing up, back arching, the hand encompassing his cock jerking hard and fast as he goes up on his toes.....

And.....

"F.U.C.K!!!!!!!!"

The howl emerging from deep within his diaphragm pierces the stillness around us.

The sky has gone silent and I believe he has actually frightened the sea birds.

I, on the other hand, am salivating at the gate.

No bridle on me now as I reach out to him.

My own body, flush against his, is hard and ready to play.

__

◇  
__

■ Armie:

"Relax."

"Sure. Try and shove a canon up your asshole and you fucking try to relax."

The lad is a tad grumpy although this was all his Idea.

I think.

But the dong is not budging. And no amount of weed, lube, or fucking deep breathing is going to help him right now.

"Hey, why aren't you doing this?" He speaks!

"Because, grasshopper, it was your fucking sister who, oh so thoughfully, included THIS in our gift pack."

"Maybe she intended it for you."

"Why don't we call her and find out?"

"Sure. You go right ahead." Tim's pissy when he's not getting what he wants. Or too much of what he wants.

And fuck, he could use a breather. Because in reality this is going to take a fucking long time to accomplish. And practice, practice, practice. And you can bet my low hanging bollocks, a display like this won't ever be seen at Carnegie Hall.

But I digress.

We both need a breather.  
__

◇  
__

■ Timmy:

"Rela---"

"I am fucking relaxing!"

Fuck he's grumpy!

Working the last two balls into Armie's ass was going along exponentially better than stuffing Trigger's massive cock into mine.

Armie had coated the dong with lube but taking a cock that size - even if it was a silicone representation - just wasn't going to happen.

Not to me anyway. Armie is certainly free to have a go at it if he wants.

Personally, I don't want.

The beads on the other hand, although a teensy bit bigger than golf balls, slid right into Armie. Well it took some effort but on a scale of 1 to 10, it was probably just about a 2 or maybe a 3. Yeah 3. I'm going with 3.  
__

◇  
__

■ Armie:

Fuck, his mouth feels good!

And my cock, although chemically enhanced (have I mentioned we're both chemically enhanced), has never felt harder.

He has me secured to the headboard, and I would tell him how fucking good this feels but for the fact that I can't speak.

Tim likes me gagged whenever we play. I'm not sure why but who am I to quibble when he's in a mood.

He rolls my ass higher up off the bed, my legs braced on top of his shoulders as he sucks. Mouth soft around my cock, tongue flicking, licking, then the suction gets stronger and I'm almost fucking there......

My ass cramps around the balls as I get closer to -

Fucking to -

I scream around the gag, my arms tugging at the sash as my body twists on the bed.

Tim's mouth leaves me as he hoists my leg even higher, his hand reaching around and under to grasp the plastic ring.

And. Oh. My. Fucking. Goooooooooooo - d.

He pulls hard as my cum shoots into the air, my ass pulsing around each invading ball as they are ripped from my body.

I lose count, and it seems to go on forever, but in reality it's only seconds before my ass is emptied. My hole gaping then tightening in excruciating ecstasy.

And I don't know if I can stand it.

Or if I ever want it to stop.  
__  
__

Later that day (or the next morning as I've completely lost track of time), I have Tim bent over the sofa back, some mind numbing old movie flickering on the TV, while I repeatedly shove my dick into him from behind.

And I thank fucking God that his ass is soft and pliable and that it wasn't stretched or damaged by our little experiment with the horse cock.

I try to slow down. Make it last. But taking Viagra has made for a very interesting and prolonged evening.  
__

Tim had laughed at my first feeble attempts at tantric centering, but here as his ass pulses and tightens on my cock, I've got to admit no amount of Yogi Bear breathing techniques is going to help me now.

I'm lost in him.

He surrounds me.

Encompasses me.

Owns me.

Tim.  
  
___

___  
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● PASSAGES - May 2020  
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___

"Mmmm?" Armie passes the joint to me, lips pursed before the exhale. 

I lean over the edge of the mattress to take a hit while he sits on the floor with his back against the bed frame.

The tuff on the top his head is getting longer and something that was an impromptu fashion statement has now become something of a mess.

"You need a haircut." I say, running my fingers over his head, just barely resisting the urge to tug on the tuff.

Armie leans his head back into my hand, tipping his chin up so I'm compelled to give him an upside down kiss.

He seems quite mellow and okay with my plan, or at least on board with having his hair buzzed off.

Either that or he's not connecting my words with any discernible action.

Which is probably the case.  
__

But this plan has now become a mission to put the word fashion back into fashion statement, because frankly, as a statement it sucks. 

\-- And not in a good way. Ba dum bum.

Now if I could only get the porn moustache to go away I'd be a happy man. 

And it's not that Armie has any hold on the look. But once he sets his mind on something, no amount of gentle persuasion, or incessant badgering, is going to get him to change his mind.   
__

Our routine after the graduation broadcast has once again become -- well, routine, as I take a hit passing the joint back to him. 

But Armie waves it away, getting up to grab his phone, fucking around with his playlist until he comes upon something he likes.

He's been listening to the oldies lately. Some shit from before he was born. And while it's not my preferred playlist -- I tell him "it's not bad -- not bad".

And a strange thought comes to mind. Can I be sworn into public office if I inhaled? I mean, I've inhaled a fucking lot. Not that I have any inclination in that matter but -- (wow that was a fucking 180!) what was I saying? 

Oh yeah, if that's what makes him happy - to space out to some psychedelic rock - well more power to him. 

"Do you think --" Armie pauses and I wonder if he's going to finish his own thought -- or if I've already finished with it. It's hard to tell what's going on with him. 

And I mean Donovan recorded some really weird shit back then. Mellow Yellow. Sunshine Superman. But Armie's personal favourite of the day is Clara Clairvoyant. As I said: weird assed shit.

If I didn't know better I'd say he was trying to tell me something. 

But he gets a pass on that when he's high -- and most other days as well.

Because if I spent all my time trying to figure out Armie's thought process, I'd have absolutely no time of my own. And I'd probably read him wrong anyways. 

He can become quite squirrelly from time to time. 

And so we move on and deal with shit one day at a time.

It sounds like some self-help bs, but whatever works. 

___  
___

● CABO - May 2019  
___  
___

■ Armie:

Two days into our little getaway, and we haven't once checked on our phones. I mean who has the time while you're spending every single minute either fucking or sleeping. (That's rhetorical by the way.)

And eating. 

Fuck the food is good here. Inconspicuous service, with a delicious, and plentiful gourmet fare that certainly lives up to the hype. 

I had my doubts; you don't travel the world without encountering some dives along the way. But here, they've got it right. We've become so comfortable being coddled and catered to, you know we may never go back outside.

And I'm pretty sure Tim doesn't give a shit if we ever leave the room.

But leave we must. Because I have plans. 

BIG. FUCKING. PLANS.  
___

◇  
___

■ Timmy:

I wake up to find Armie rifling through our bags; pulling out handfuls of totally unnecessary clothing.

"I ordered lunch." He says, tossing a pair of my cargo pants onto the bed.

"I don't think the waiter cares if we're dressed or not." 

We haven't bothered opening our bags this far into our stay, so why now? 

My take is that this is a tad unusual, and well, pointless.

Bathrobes have been the only covering we've employed; and then only when food arrives. I mean who the fuck cares when we're only going to be taking it off five minutes later.

I roll over to gaze through the open patio doors and onto the tranquil surf. The beautiful vistas the ocean provides, combined with our self imposed sexual hibernation, sets us apart from the masses, and any other guests at the resort. 

And I never knew how much we needed this up until now.

Between negotiations for plays - for both Armie and myself, although on different continents (I mean how fucked up is that), and our crazy shooting schedules, we really haven't had much time alone. 

So his plan of whisking me away, on a private jet no less, to a virtual paradise has certainly been one of his more ingenious strategies. Exponentially better than just holing ourselves up in my apartment and fucking our brains out. 

Although that too does have its merits. 

__

"Get dressed." Armie shoves the pants towards me.

"Says the man who's buck naked." I scoff, enjoying his buck-nakedness.

"See." He holds up his shorts in one hand and the ugliest printed shirt in the universe in the other.

I'm baffled as to how one of the most elegantly dressed men in the world actually owns one of the most hideous garments ever made.

So I guess if I have to wear something, it's probably best I choose my own wardrobe. 

__

"Hey, where are we go -" I can't finish my thought as Armie grabs my hand and before I can continue, I'm yanked upright off the bed. 

So what's the hurry? I want to ask but he's already pulling on his shorts, commando no less; not bothering to button up the shirt. 

The ugly shirt.

"It's a surprise. You'll like it." He assures me, placing a couple of joints into his breast pocket on our way out of the room. 

__  
__

We're soon motoring down the open road in the rental Jeep Armie's acquired; whisking us away to wherever the fuck he's taking me.  
__

And I love it when he drives. It gives me the opportunity to just watch him. To admire the make of this man who three years ago swept me off my feet. Literally. 

I remember that first night, after a marvelous dinner at Luca's, we were goofing around on the way back to our apartments in Crema, when Armie pulled me into a stairwell and stole my heart in the most beautiful and romantic way you ever could imagine. 

Fuck stolen. 

I gave it willingly.

I remember getting lost in his gaze. Of his, "are you feeling this too?". And my, "I think we'll be amazing together". And finally our combined, "fuck it, we're going to do this" -- that was a wordless communication, taking only a second, that began something that has barely wavered over the last three years.

And as he then kissed me, I came to the realization he was THE ONE I'd been waiting for. 

And after all our years together - and all the ups and downs - the ins, the outs we've navigated - he's still the one. 

So I have no doubt that today will be just as wonderful. 

The beauty of this place just takes my breath away. He's chosen well on this, because I have to admit I have a certain surprise of my own.   
__

Armie pulls the Jeep alongside a picturesque stretch of beach. 

But the sand, the waves, and the gorgeous scenery have nothing on this man. His inner beauty surpasses it all. It's hard to find sometimes, but it shines through in moments like this. 

And then we round a bend, I see it. 

He's really outdone himself this time.  
__

◇  
__

■ Armie:

"What is this place?" Timmy asks.

"Playa del Amor, Lover's Beach. And that over there is El Arco." I point out towards the natural archway in the rock formation anchoring the magnificent seascape. 

"Fuck it's beautiful." He breathes, his fingers wrapping around mine.

No tentative touch this. 

"Yeah. Pretty damned romantic I'd say." The place is getting to me too.

Tim toes his runner into the sand and I get the district feeling he's more emotional than I am right now - and I'm pretty fucking emotional as it is.

Walking along the shoreline, we're probably the only two people here. Or it feels that way. There are boats in the distance but it's basically just the two of us.

And that's how I wanted him to see it. In the midday sun with no one around for miles. 

I also want him to see it at sunset but that is hours off and sadly I know it will be more crowded by then.   
__

We find a spot - how apropos - and stretching out on the sand, Tim removes my shirt to lay it out as a blanket. 

I would worry about burning and sunscreen and shit but Tim, in a supremely altruistic gesture has decided to cover me himself. 

I nudge him a bit as he settles on top but he seems intent on making sure he's keeping me safe.  
__

◇  
__

■ Timmy:

I slide down slightly; kissing his neck, going up on my knees to straddle him as my mouth maps his collarbone, nuzzling into his chest, licking around the areola to gently bite, then lave at his nipple.

My tongue travels over to the other side, slathering spit that dampens the copious hair on his chest.

And I can't help but gently tunnel my fingers into the matted slime, then tugging not so gently so that he's soon has hot and bothered as I am. 

My mouth plays over the dip just under his rib cage, licking back and forth before circling down towards his navel. 

I put my lips to him there, puckering tight so only the tip of my tongue enters, slightly jabbing, then I cover him completely, the suction pulling the skin of his belly into my mouth. 

I look up to see his head thrown back; his hands digging into the sand; legs slightly bent so his knees are now bracketing my body. 

And even out in the open, we're alone in our own little world. 

I slide down even further, nudging this waistband so he's now exposed. And one hand tunnelling through the leg of his shorts, soon has him raising up slightly so I can now touch him there; brushing the infamous scrotum that had once so mysteriously disappeared from celluloid. 

I bring my hand up to put two fingers into my mouth, suckling hard so the saliva flows freely. 

Then back inside his shorts to slip inside. Him. 

His walls clenching tight around those invading digits that have both of us moaning, me onto his swollen cock, him into the noisy air; competing with the rush of the waves and the cries of the seabirds. 

They mind not if we're invading their space, and I wonder what they make of the two humans coupling in the sand.   
__  
__

The shrieks of the gulls get louder as Armie bucks upward, his cock hard and heavy in my mouth, my throat contracting around to the point where his groans turn into a guttural howl that has the birds going silent for the time it takes for him to cum.

And then the stillness of the day surrounds us.   
__  
__

We wander out into the surf, the warm water lapping at ankles that in their bareness glow white under the midday sun. 

We came here to this resort, to this place and yet these are the most rays we've had durning our brief stay. That must say something, but it doesn't. Not really. 

We could have stayed in New York or L.A., but the lure of an exotic location, combined with the chance to get away and decompress for a few days, has been just what we were looking for. 

Then my world is turned upside down again as Armie roughly gathers me up over his shoulder. And soon I'm sputtering sea water as he dives in beside me. Where I try my hardest to circle his shoulders to push him under so he too can experience the dunking he has given me.

This is the most uninhibited fun we've had in ages and I really don't want it to stop. 

But he got other plans as he pushes my lonely boxers over my ass to side into me, the chest high water that was so warm moments before, now cool against our heated bodies.

My legs circle his waist, my arms clutching at his shoulders as he tips me back so the angle hits me just right --- there.

And the sucking he's had not so long ago has little effect on his strength or stamina. 

And as he takes us even further from shore for more buoyancy, the waves become relentless against our bodies, pounding me from the outside as his rampant cock pounds me from within. 

No seabirds are disturbed this time. And as I scream my elation, his mouth descends to swallow my cries.

I'm wrapped so tightly around him that he disappears within my grasp, and we have become one again.   
__

Pulling up my cargos to toe on my runners, I really don't mind that my wayward boxers have been lost at sea, as long as the ring hidden deep in my pants pocket is still there.

Ring, you say? 

Yep. A ring. 

It's been burning a hole in my pocket the last few days we've been here. 

Mostly because I've wanted to give it to Armie without any hoopla, fanfare or anything that smells of commitment - I mean it is a commitment, of sorts, I guess, but I don't want him to feel obligated in anyway. 

And I want him to understand I'm not trying to tie him down -- as if!

Well not that kind of tying anyway.  
__

We're walking back to the Jeep when Armie turns, realizing he's forgotten his ugly shirt.

"Leave it." I tell him. Then I remember there are still two joints nestled into his pocket.

"Fuck. Let's go back." I mutter, sure that I had gotten rid of the offensive garment for good.  
__

◇  
__

■ Armie:

I bend to pick up my ruined shirt, shaking the sand out of the loud fibers. I know it's ugly and like to torture Tim with it, but his plan to bury it there had been foiled when he realized there was hidden value within the Hawaiian print.

I turn to give Timmy a light and there he is --- down on one fucking knee -- what's up with that?

It can't be what I think he's doing. 

And at this point I feel like I should have gotten him more than a fuck in the ocean because he's obviously got romance on his mind.  
__

◇  
__

■ Timmy:

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I was feeling foolish already, and then why the fucking fuck did I do the bended knee thing! It's nothing like I rehearsed in my head. It was to be quiet, unceremonious, and the ring was just going to magically appear on his finger. No fuss. No muss. Just that.

But here I am, scrunched down in the sand like I'm going to propose - which for the record I'm not - completely dwarfed by the size and presence of the man before me

But Amie helps me up, taking my hand in his, twining our fingers together before kissing my knuckles. Then he pulls me completely into him to plant a kiss on my lips, saving me from total embarrassment.   
__

◇  
__

■ Armie:

I knew what Timmy was doing; I can read him pretty well by now.

That look on his face that told me so many things - he really is the most expressive person I know - telegraphing how uncomfortable, and possibly regretful he was kneeling in the sand.

Although at the time I had no inkling he was going to propose. 

Not right then anyway.

But all the emotions travelling across his face at that precise moment were basically screaming, "Fucking help me, get me out of this!"

Part of me wanted to be pissed off, but I know him, there isn't anything he would, or could, do to change what we have.

It fucking works, is what I'm saying.

So I helped him up. Gathered him into my arms and kissed the hell outta him. 

And that works too.  
___  
___

● Epilogue:

● Cabo - May 2019  
___  
___

■ Armie:

Tim hunches over me, his ass rubbing up against my erection.

"Do it." I say. But what I really mean is "do me".

Tim loves being on top. Not necessarily a top, but physically guiding the action.

"Do it." I tell him again. Hoping he'll press himself down onto my cock and fucking finally, finally, let me take over and fuck the shit outta him.

It's been a long drawn out process, this foreplay of his. Not that I'm complaining mind you, but enough is enough.

I don't need to be wooed. I don't need any of that, because at some point, raw emotion will take over and the need to get to the finish line becomes paramount.

He leans forward, his body leaving mine, and I have to stop myself from grabbing him and forcing him back down onto me.

My hands clench, my fingers itch.

And somehow he knows. 

His hands clasp mine, drawing them up over my head, putting both my hands into one of his -- and then he does it.

One of my fingers inches out and the ring is slipped on.

No words this time. 

But a fucking surprise none the less.

And all those raw emotions I was speaking of, erupt into an immediate and frenzied coupling.

It's hard and fast and any previous gentleness fades into something that has been lacking so far into this impromptu orgy of sexual depravity.

Thanks to his sister's gift basket - sure we'll blame her - we've screwed ourselves raw. And there's no way I regret any of it but that's what it was. Fucking. Rimming. Ramming. Mating. Breeding. 

Yes, breeding. Because what we have, what we do, is nurturing the deepest of bonds. 

But *with this ring* ----- there is now connection, completion.

And that makes a world of difference.

Not that it diminishes what we were doing before, but tonight changes everything.   
___  
___

● NYC - May 2020  
___  
___

■ Timmy:

Armie has finally given me carte blanche on furnishings for the loft. 

It only took a day to burn off the nervous energy that potential conflict brings, to get him to see my side, and to understand I might know what I'm doing.

And I don't know which surprised me more, the loft or buzzing his hair, but they both leave me with a contented feeling that has been missing the last few weeks.  
__  
__

"There. All done."

I'm not sure who was holding their breath longer. But it's finished.

And having Armie let me use the clippers on a regular day would have been a miracle, during quarantine, with nowhere to go but stay home and possibly fight about it (and especially after a joint or two. It was two - I think) he, in a totally orchestrated gesture, with all the pompous circumstance he could muster, handed them over. 

Then he just sat there, a satisfied smile on his face, even before I started cutting, and let me buzz away the faux-hawk.  
__  
__

That done, we get on to other more important things, like ordering pizza and finishing off his latest stash of weed. 

And fucking. But that's a given.  
__  
__

And now Armie has almost fucked himself into a coma, and I say that because, after reverting him to cue ball state, he became so amorous that I figured I probably should have buzzed the 'hawk a long time ago and saved myself all the fucking drama of the last few weeks.

Part of the mixed up buying spree and eventual miscommunication that resulted in twice the fucking furniture we needed, could have been avoided if we'd just talked more. 

And fucked more. If that were even possible.   
__  
__

I mess around with Armie's phone, scrolling through playlists after playlist, trying to find something that will keep us mellowed out while not completely putting us to sleep.

He's got really eclectic taste. Hey, I'm putting it mildly, there's shit on there I've never heard of before, and other shit I have but would never put on my own phone.

And then I find it. An oldie that my mother used to play by Joe Cocker. 

I listen from a distance, as Armie seems totally depleted; his long body draped over the too small sofa the rental agency mistakenly thought would fit someone with a 6'5" frame.

Then Van Morrison's raspy tones belt out yet another song. I know this one too. It's beautiful.   
__

Armie drowsily makes room for me as I curl up beside him --

And listen to the lyrics.   
__

Have I told you lately that I love you?  
Have I told you there's no one else above you?  
Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness  
Ease my troubles, that's what you do

For the morning sun in all its glory  
Meets the day with hope and comfort too  
You fill my life with laughter, somehow you make it better  
Ease my troubles, that's what you do

There's a love less defined  
And its yours and its mine  
Like the sun  
And at the end of the day  
We should give thanks and pray  
To the one, to the one

Have I told you lately that I love you?  
Have I told you there's no one else above you?  
Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness  
Ease my troubles, that's what you do

There's a love less defined  
And its yours and its mine  
Like the sun  
And at the end of the day  
We should give thanks and pray  
To the one, to the one

Have I told you lately that I love you?  
Have I told you there's no one else above you?  
Fill my heart with gladness, take away all my sadness  
Ease my troubles, that's what you do

Take away all my sadness, fill my life with gladness  
Ease my troubles, that's what you do

[by Van Morrison]*  
__

The song ends and I can tell Armie's asleep. 

His breath evens out and I lean back even further, letting his breathing regulate mine. 

In and out.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, echoes through the two of us.

His arm falls over my shoulder and I wrap my own arms over his, my hands softly brushing along his fingers, our rings glistening in the fading firelight --   
__

And we just be.   
___  
___

■ FIN - HOTEL 7.3

■ Part1: PROUD - Part 2: PASSAGES  
___


	4. 7.4 PANACEA - One Raccoon, Two Raccoon - Tabloid-Shitstorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While vacationing in Cabo, Tim and Armie take pleasure in the hotel hot tub to some surprising but inevitable fallout. And back in NYC Armie comes up with an inventive venture to educate the masses. 
> 
> In part 2 of the chapter, Tim is a little tied up as Armie becomes focused on making their experience the most connective it can be. And back on the home front, the Tabloid-Shitstorm that was threatening has hit the media full force.

■ HOTEL 7 Part 4 - PANACEA  
■ HOTEL 7.4 Part 1 - One Raccoon, Two Raccoon  
■ HOTEL 7.4 Part 2 - Tabloid-Shitstorm  
_____  
_____

■ ☆ Disclaimer: this is a fictional depiction of the two actors (and other peripheral characters) mentioned within the following storyline  
_____  
___

■ CABO - May 2019  
■ In the Still of the Night  
___  
_____

As Tim orders up our last meal of the day, we've made it outside to the small pool on the deck, but that's as far as we've gone since we got back from our little trip to Playa del Amor.

It's much more private here than the open beach where everyone can see us. 

This is nestled in beside our deck with a door leading right into our room.

That room has been our refuge for three solid days, as items from our gift basket have been used and slightly abused, okay a lot abused, and it seems the only thing that hasn't been sullied beyond repair is the beautiful young man currently brandishing a half empty bottle of pills in one hand, a bottle of tequila in the other.

Now to be optimistic, you could also say that either bottle could be half full. 

Po-tay-to, to-mah-to. But who the fuck cares. 

And you'd think that with Timmy, I would have no need for any help in that department; my dick doesn't need pills to stay hard, and you wouldn't be wrong. But the thought of fucking Timmy for hours on end, or in his end, is just too good to pass up. 

So I lay there, arms draped over the azure tile as Tim tosses the smaller pill bottle over to me. 

I catch it in one hand to open the top while Tim saunters over clad in just his boxers.

The hem dampens with water, the dark stain travelling higher as he wades deeper into the pool. The fabric has wicked the moisture upwards so the crotch has now become saturated to the point where the material clings to his cock; the outline plainly obvious to the naked eye.

And even though he is not naked per se, the look is somehow more erotic because of that.

I put the first tablet onto my tongue to kiss it into his mouth; Tim taking a swig from the liquor bottle to wash it down.

Now you could assume I'm just being a good host by offering it to him first but you would only be half right.

This message comes through loud and clear, I couldn't say it louder if I tried.

It screams, "FUCK ME!"

Fuck me hard and deep.  
Fuck me everywhere. And don't stop.  
Fuck me until I bleed and your dick falls off.  
Fuck me until we are no more.  
__

Or something to that effect.  
__

Tim's erection tents his shorts; his cock begging to be freed like a caged bird, or in this case, rampant beast. 

He's close enough to touch; my fingers running teasingly around that beast but not touching. Yet. 

I pluck at a spot near his hip, pulling the fabric out and back so it stretches taut over him as he just stands there, arms akimbo -- waiting. 

I can clearly see the head of his cock. Twitching. Begging to be allowed to come out and play.

The bottle clinks as Tim sets it heavily onto the pool's edge.

Pulling him twards me by the fabric, he widens his stance to straddle my submerged legs; his hands clutching at my shoulders as I free him; his erection bobbing upwards to anoint my forehead with warm precum.

He grabs his cock, running the head over my cheeks, my nose, sliding it downward towards my mouth; the scent of him overwhelming my senses. 

"Let go." He says.

But the directive's confusing. Does he want me to release the fabric or is it something more? 

He puts his hand over mine to settle my own hand over the edge of the pool.

The message is clear.

Keep it there and don't fucking let go.

His cock presses hot against my lips, his hand guiding to trace the seam, where my tongue snakes out to capture his essence. 

But it's soon apparent he's the one in control as his hands move to tunnel into my hair; holding me steady as he pushes forward. 

I barely have time to adjust before he bumps the back of my throat. 

Then he goes just a little bit deeper.

"Relax." He tells me.

But first my reaction is to fight the invasion. And by his actions he clearly sees it that way.

Centering myself, I try to implement some of that Yogi Bear breathing technique I've been touting. 

So I'm relaxed! I'm fucking relaxing. 

He's well into my throat so how fucking relaxed does he want me to be? 

My hands itch to touch him. To clutch his ass the way his fingers are clutching my hair. To tunnel into his hole, invading him as he is invading me.

I want this to be a total connection.

He inches his body forward to where he is completely contained inside my mouth.

His balls bumping against my chin. My tongue reaching out to caress his sac.

And then it begins. 

Had it not started before? 

Not really.

This is in earnest. 

A deliberate and thorough fucking of the face.

My face. My mouth. My hole. Any hole. 

Readily accepting whatever he gives me.  
__

I try not to choke as his cock rams into me.

His cock scrapes at the effusive amount of spit and saliva that slides over him, coating his cock, making the ride slipperier, faster, harder.

It dribbles out my mouth, soon gushing as it runs in a river of slime down my chin to my chest.

And yet he doesn't stop. He's in the zone. 

In me. 

Relentless.

His leg bumps my cock and it's so hard it wants to break off.

My concentration wavers for a moment as my own need soars but its quickly brought back to the task at hand as his groin attaches itself to my face making an unbreakable seal. 

I want to fight it so badly. 

My air is cut off and I struggle to breathe as my mouth his flooded with cum.

But he holds me still for one moment longer as his orgasm continues to rage into me; my throat convulsing tightly around his cock. 

He lets go of my head and I'm soon fighting for air. Taking it in in huge gasping gulps. Bubbles frothing on my tongue, as his cum mixes with much needed oxygen upon his slow retreat. 

But he's not done.

As a parting salvo, Tim reaches to the side of the pool, and bending downward he presses his fingers against the sides of my lips, and opening my mouth wide he spits a little blue pill into me.

He tips the tequila into my mouth and the smooth burn invades me once more.  
__

We've used breath play before and this is nothing different.

But I can still feel him against the back of my throat. 

And choking on his cock, you'd think I'd feel kinda used; the violence with which he fucked me shows the boy definitely has some pent up something. 

Or was just too drunk or high to notice.  
__  
__

■ NYC - June 2020  
■ RACCOON-D!CK  
__

"Hey Timmy," Armie calls up from the new couch, "did you know that the human anus can stretch up to 7 inches before taking any damage." 

Where does he find this shit? Or better still, why does he look up this shit? And where is he going with this?

"And a raccoon can squeeze into holes as small as 4 inches?" He looks at me like he's expecting me to take the bait.

"And your point is?" 

"Just think about it!" Armie gets excited over the weirdest things; expecting me to put two and two together. 

"Okay so this means YOU can take almost two full raccoons up YOUR asshole." I want to make sure he understands there's no chance I'll ever do it. Even figuratively. 

"Now that you mention it --"

"Hey, I'm not the one who brought this up." 

"Yeah I know, but isn't it amazing what the human body can accomplish. "

"Sure Armie, we all know knowledge is power."

"You bet your ass it is."  
___

Mr 'Let's Google Shit' decides to take his new tidbit of information even further later that evening, while we're in bed no less. 

"Hey Timmy," Armie clears his throat, obviously about to impart some new nugget of wisdom.

His use of the diminutive Timmy always makes me nervous as Armie has mostly reverted back to the Call Me By Your Name days of calling me Tim. 

"You know how much you've wanted a new name for your cock?"

"I have?" No I haven't, I would have remembered. 

"Well I think I've found one. From now on you'll forever be known as *Raccoon-Dick*."

"Really. It sounds like my cock is really tiny." And hairy -- I'll have to look that up.

"Nah, not a racoon-zzz dick," Armie stresses the possessive, "the whole raccoon."

"And that makes it better?"

"Bigger."

"As opposed to what? Mr Happy?"

"No one calls my dick Mr Happy."

"I do."

Armie stands up to do an accentuated bump and grind that brings attention to his cock and ass; a very tempting ass at that.

So I concede, "Okay, but right now he's not really a Mr Happy, more of a Mr Pleased to Meet You."

Armie steps closer, perhaps thinking if I got a better look, it would grow on me.  
__  
__

■ CABO - May 2019  
■ Happy Hour  
__ 

I stand up in the pool; letting rivulets of water slew down my body. The water is cool but the little blue pill is definitely doing its job of keeping my dick hard.

"Oooo, 'Mr Happy'." Tim croons, giggling helplessly; he's so wasted that he finds anything funny. 

"I can be 'Mr Anything You Want'." I paraphrase an old line.

And lifting him up onto the edge of the pool, I remove his saturated boxers, raising his legs to support him under the knees. 

Rubbing my index finger over his tiny bud, it blooms around that digit, pulsing as I press deeper and I'm very pleased to find he has prepared for the event. 

"What --" Tim struggles to get his footing.

"Shhh." I tell him. "There's no one around for miles."

Okay, maybe I lied, but we're so secluded here that it's like we're in our own little world.

So Tim pulls me forward for an overly sloppy kiss; and keeping his legs jack-knifed between us, he wraps his arms around my neck.

He's like a fucking contortionist and I love him for that. Extreme flexibility is a plus in my book. Hell, any book.

His eyes close as I slide home. 

I want to see him; see myself in his eyes; but closed is good too, blinding him to my next move.

My arms wrap around his back, moving downward to cup his ass.

And I lift him onto me. 

Slamming into him as I then take his weight; turning to face the center of the pool; wandering a bit deeper so our bodies gain some buoyancy. 

And the fucking becomes more frenzied; the water churning up around us. Creating our very own ecosystem. 

Where Tim has become more vocal. Much more vocal. 

His litany of, "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!", echoes in the stillness of the evening air.

My arms change position, and one single finger presses in beside my cock.

"FUCKKKKKKKKKK!" Tim screeches. 

Then he becomes quiet. 

His mouth attaching itself to my neck. His teeth scoring into my skin.

I want to bellow out. And I do. 

"Arrrhhhhhh." 

And with Tim's legs drumming helplessly, I up the tempo. 

Our bodies slamming onto and into each other; this animalistic mating that scares the birds and awakens the Gods.

And ye Gods he feels amazing. 

His lips leaves my neck, mashing into my mouth, his tongue fucking me as I am now fucking him.

And I don't recall who came first but after I do, cum that is, Tim just keeps slamming onto me.

He can't seem to get enough. We can't seem to get enough.

We calm down enough that at some point he reaches to grab the last remnants of the tequila; tipping the bottle up to drain the last drops. 

He then kisses the last of it into my mouth, my eyes widening as he passes to me the Mezcal soaked surprise.

I swallow it down without flinching as I'm certainly not new to this.

But then Tim then pouts realizing I've already dispatched with his gift.  
__  
__

■ NYC - June 2020  
■ Author! Author!  
__

The sun streams through the giant windows of our loft; it's nice to see some kind of normalcy in the midst of lunacy. It reminds me of better, freer days.

Armie sits up with a cup of coffee beside him.

Hey! I want to exclaim but don't when I realise there's one beside me too.

"Good morning sunshine." Armie has taken to saying that first thing in the morning and I kind of like it.

"Morning." I mumble around the cup; bringing the much needed elixir to my lips. 

Concentrating on my caffeine fix, I can hear a sharpie scratching and pages rustling. 

"What are you doing?" I ask when I'm more alert; noticing the large sketchbook on his lap.

"I'm thinking of writing a book."

"And what kind of book are you writing?" I humour him.

"A children's book." He smiles. "Educational actually."

Wow, I did not expect that!

"What's it called?" Oh my God am I really falling for this?

"One Raccoon, Two Raccoon." He says smugly. 

And then he shows me his mock up. With crude drawings. X-rated pictures and everything. And I do mean everything.

"It's for gay kids." He clarifies.

Sure it is.

I'm incredulous and amazed and soon falling into laughter. 

"Do not mock me." Armie frowns. "I have big plans for this. There will be a descriptive video and plush animals to go along with it."

And now I know he's fucking with me!  
__  
__

■ CABO - May 2019  
■ The Brewing Storm  
__

Tim tips the waiter; handing me a cup of extremely strong coffee off the cart before snagging his own bagel and cream cheese.

Our bags are packed -- were they ever unpacked? And the car service is set to arrive any minute. 

Tim is dressed in his usual garb for the flight; cap, sunglasses, and way too warm clothing, while I prefer to torture him further with the freshly laundered Hawaiian Shirt From Hell. 

We're just about to close the door when Tim's phone rings. Mine is still turned off and I'm choosing to leave it that way until we get home.

"Who --" I ask.

"Shhh, its Brian." Tim waves his hand at me.

What the fucking fuck! Can't he leave us alone? Even until we get back to L.A.!

Tim is quietly listening as I make a production out of gathering up both of our bags, leaving him to his conversation. 

"Armie!" He hisses. 

I turn and something in his face tells me there is a giant shit-storm approaching our quiet little getaway.

"Okay." Tim says quietly into the phone before putting it back into his pocket.

What's up? I want to ask, but Tim only marches ahead of me towards the front desk.

He speaks to the bellman who then takes our luggage out to the curb. 

And I still have no fucking clue what's going on.  
__  
__

■ NYC - June 2020  
■ Directives  
__

Armie stands back as I adjust the spray from our rain shower. I've explained it to him ad nauseam, it's not fucking rocket science after all, but he refuses to do it himself. 

Probably something to do with not getting the tile he wanted or the paint color in the bedroom. 

I'm not sure these days. He's become broody with being cooped up for so long and not being able to work. 

I, on the other hand, have been busy researching for the movie and taking guitar lessons. First in person, and now virtual, which works too. 

I think he was a little bit pissed I wouldn't let him teach me. But the studio is in charge and the guy is a really good instructor.

Armie's contribution of late has been to use his sketch pad a la Bob Dylan to inpart his little bits of wisdom or directives as he calls them.

It seems he prefers to communicate this way.

He scared the shit out of me the other day when I got into an Uber and he slapped a page on the windshield that said in giant letters, "SEE YOU AT MIDNIGHT."

I have no idea what the driver thought but it certainly gave me something to think about as we headed through the city. 

I was checking my old place before officially handing over my key to the realtor. 

Everything has been moved into the loft, even though it still needs some finishing touches. Mostly a picture here and a bits and pieces of the of the shitload of memorabilia Armie's had in storage since he closed up his place in L.A., there.  
__  
__

■ Somewhere over Mexico - May 2019  
■ Less than Zero  
__

I had to book a commercial flight home and to say it doesn't have quite the same ambience as the ride here is a fucking understatement.

Plus it's the first time since the Call Me By Your Name tour that we've flown together. Granted it's first class, but the shit-show we had to endure while boarding was enough to set my teeth on edge.

I have zero tolerance with anything that smells of paparazzial pandering. And it's one of the big reasons we haven't traveled together before this.  
__

And Tim is ignoring me.

Perhaps I should have started with that.  
__

He won't look at me. Won't touch me. Won't talk to me.

He has completely shut down. 

I'm not sure what is going on, but I'm sure it's big. 

He doesn't do the drama queen bit any more, and this, whatever this is, had thrown him for a loop.  
__  
__

■ L.A. - May 2019  
■ Incoming  
__

Tim swivels the laptop to face me and my blood runs cold, I am so fucking livid, I can barely think.

All I'm hearing in my head is a loud pounding that tells me my blood pressure is heading through the fucking roof. 

Tim on the other hand seems calm.

Too fucking calm.

He's been on the phone with Brian ever since we deplaned. The only reason he's acknowledging me now is to show me those fucking pictures.

The fucking pictures!

There were ones from the beach too but we were mostly submerged for those. The batch from the pool are extremely high quality and so explicit they can never be printed that way.

How many black bars can they slap on one picture?

But the ones that are the most damaging are from our last night in Cabo. 

After the ocean. After the pool.

Holy fuck this could end his career! 

I don't give a shit about mine, but no producer, no studio will want the bad press this will generate.  
__  
__

■ HOTEL 7.4 Part 2 - PANACEA - Tabloid Shit-Storm  
__  
__

■ CABO - May 2019 - Desire  
■ Perfect  
__

I love when he does that.

Beg.  
__

"Please, (please, please)." His eyes say it all.

Tim stands there. Arms behind his back. Elbows together. The sash from my robe tightly secured around his upper arms.

Who the fuck needs an arm-binder when one can improvise. Again that's fucking rhetorical. 

His hair is wet from the pool. His body glistens in the moonlight that filters through the open door. Pale arms, chest, stomach, groin. 

His cock, still hard as stone -- make that marble in this light. 

He looks perfect. 

Like Michelangelo's David.  
__

I sit there on the edge of the bed admiring his perfection.

He doesn't need anything more than this.

Just the sash will do 

He promised not to speak, so I'm taking him at his word.

Otherwise we wouldn't be doing this.

But Tim had asked so nicely.  
__

Turning him around, his face catches the light and his beauty is haunting.

But his back needs admiring too. 

Strong shoulders, tapered waist; one that I can easily span with my fingers.

Legs that go on forever.  
__

I get up for another adjustment, bending him forward from that slim waist.

Then sit back down.

Perfect.

His ass practically glows. A perfect orb delineated by a crease that holds so many promises. 

As I said. Perfection.  
__

He doesn't move a muscle as I approach from the side; my hand caressing that perfect orb; one cheek then the other. Not lingering. Not playing favourites. 

My fingertip strays; tracing the crease top to bottom.

I can hear him breathing. 

It's so hot not to hear anything but the surf and my boy's breaths.  
__

I kneel down behind him to set my hands on either side of that orb. 

My fingers dance towards the middle, slowly pressing him open like a curtain. 

His sighs and his hole winks at me. 

Well hello there.

It winks again and I have to kiss it. 

Softly.

Then I lick; swiping from bottom to top this time.

He tries to fidget and I stop.

It takes him a moment to settle, then I can resume.

My hands grip his calves together, holding him steady as he trembles within my grasp. 

He's doing so well.  
__

My mouth wants to bite him. Not hard. Just a nip.

He practically falls over and it's a good thing I'm holding onto his legs.

He's ready the second time. On the other cheek. 

As I said -- not playing favourites. 

His flesh is so elastic. 

My teeth worry his skin, right there. Yes. 

Plucking at one cheek, then the other. 

Little nips again. 

Yes.  
__

I stand up, moving to the front. 

His head.

At just the right level. 

My hand cups his chin; holding him steady; getting the angle right.

And his breath on my cock almost undoes me.

I step closer and his mouth opens.

Wide. 

Yes.  
__

I press forward to bump the back of his throat. 

His tongue wiggles before settling. 

The pace of the intrusion startled him.

Did he think I would go slow?

Silly boy.

One hand slides over his back, reaching as far as his ass.

Tap. Tap.

Oh. He didn't expect that.

Not hard, but enough to get his attention.

His throat convulses around my dick.

The vibrations felt in both my cock and my palm cradling his throat.

It feels nice so I do it again. 

But he's ready and doesn't flinch. 

Not the reaction I was going for.  
__

He's tiring, bent over like this. 

His arms captured behind.

Nothing to anchor him but my cock sliding in and out.

He's doing well and I tell him so.

With my hands. With my touch.

I can feel him smile around my dick.

I'm glad he's happy. 

That's what this is all about. Making him happy.  
__

Time to stand him up.

His hair falls into his eyes.

I brush my fingers through his curls.

And he sighs again. 

My hands move to his chest; pulling lightly at his nipples. 

One, then the other. Then both together. 

He likes that. 

So I pull them higher. 

Up on his toes.

Yes.  
__

His eyes plead for more. 

He knows not to speak but he says so much with those eyes. 

I remove the sash from his elbows where he instinctively knows to keep his hands together.

But those eyes are saying too much. 

I silence them with the sash --

Wrapped around twice, then knotted.  
__

On your knees now. 

Pressing on his shoulders; he awkwardly lowers himself down. 

I caress his hair again to tug at those miss-happened curls; holding him still as I move into him once more.

He's ready. 

His throat is soft and obediently accommodates my cock. 

Yesssssss.  
__

It doesn't take long before I'm ready to cum. 

And after so many cums over the evening, this one is somehow more special. 

It's for him. Tim.  
__  
__

■ L.A. - May 2019  
■ Tabloid Shit-Storm  
__

"Wake the fuck up!"

What?

"There's more. Brian just sent them to me."

I knew this would happen, it always does, but didn't tell him; time enough for him to find out.

And that finding's now.  
__  
__ 

■ CABO - May 2019 - Arousal  
■ Silent Screams  
__

I take several deep breaths.

It's a heady feeling having your partner service you.

Give only to you. Wanting nothing for himself.

But I'm not a selfish lover.

I give back  
__

I put my hands on his shoulders; carefully helping him rise.

His mouth is so soft. 

Lips plump and slightly bruised. But oh so kissable.

My tongue traces along each plump morsel; savoring the taste, the flavour of me, coupled with weed, tequila and Tim.

I capture his sighs that eventually turn into more vocal moans and groans. 

My mouth giving back to him with my taste. 

His essence still on my tongue.  
__

I then bring my hand to his mouth; my knuckles roughly grinding into those soft lips before turning over.

Where his tongue obediently darts out to lick my open palm. 

That pointed offering drawing circles onto my flesh.

Licking of my salt and our combined juices.

Secretions lapped up and savored. 

But enough teasing.

"Spit." I tell him. 

My first word so far.  
__

My fingers then migrate to his chest as I move behind.

My cock grinding into his crease.

His hands wanting to grasp onto my flesh. 

But no. Not there.

I move his trapped hands to the side, placing myself flush up against him.

Then from behind, I draw my fingertips upon his nipples. Hard.

Caress his abdominals. Harder.

Winding up at his cock. Hardest of all.  
__

The pad of my thumb playing around the glans; tickling the frenulum. 

Where my spit soaked hand circles round; journeying down to the base. 

Holding tight as it slides back up to the tip. 

Lubing him well for the tug and slide.

Tim grinds his ass into me. 

And I stop.

I don't let go, but I stop what I'm doing so he will stop what he's doing.  
__

His cock lies heavily in my hand.

The events of the evening clearly disproving any notion that too much sex can kill you. 

We'd be dead by now if it did.  
__

And we begin again.

My chin resting upon his shoulder; my mouth whispering silent words of encouragement.

But he knows.

Yes. He knows.  
__

He's getting closer; and I up the pace. 

The slap and tug of my hand on his flesh is music to our ears.

Timmy is attuned to every sound, every whispering touch on his flesh, as my thumb glides over him once again. 

And it's more than he can take.

His body goes rigid. 

His breath hitches as he desperately wants to cry out.

But no.

We have a deal.

Where I take pity on him, cupping my free hand over his mouth to capture his silent screams.  
__  
__

■ L.A. - May 2019  
■ Cannonade  
__

The pictures, when they emerge, are dark and slightly fuzzy. But you can plainly see the sash.

Around his arms.

Over his eyes.

His mouth on my cock.

My hand on his cock. 

Both of us gloriously illuminated by the moonlight dancing over the ocean.

Nothing is left to the imagination.

And it's just a matter of time before the quality is improved down to the finest detail.  
__  
__

And the press, predicatively, takes the story by storm. 

Actually it's more like a battle. One volley after the next.

Romantic stroll along the beach. Tame.

Tim clutching me in the surf. Not much to see there.

Thank God they missed the beginning where he sucked me off in plain sight. 

But who the fuck cares when the next series is released.

In the pool; Tim clutching my head while I swallow his dick. You couldn't see much there either but you really didn't need to.

Then Tim, jack-knifed in my arms as I fucked him at sunset. You could almost hear our cries as they echoed over the patio off our hotel room.

Arms and legs wrapped around my neck for everyone to see. 

The fucking black bands hid nothing that the public hadn't already ogled online.  
__

The last ones, and the worst of the headlines came out a day later and it was as if they fucking knew it would break him.

They had no shame in ruining the most beautiful boy in the world.  
__  
__

■ CABO - May 2019 - Arousal II  
■ The Third Act  
__

He's so beautiful standing there. 

His eyes hooded. The sash from his own robe draped lightly over his left shoulder. 

I always thought he would ask for this. 

And it's so much more than anything we've done before. This supplication that has nothing to do with power or domination but more about loving and trust. 

It's the ultimate giving over of one's self. And in this gifting, there's a reciprocity that happens. That by facilitating the unconditional surrender of his sensual being, he is rewarded with the granddaddy of all orgasms. A completely organic, cosmic centering of all his sexual desires. 

More Yogi Bear shit that actually works.  
__  
__

■ L.A. - May 2019  
■ Fall Out  
__

It's no surprise the tabloid's are having a field day. 

TMZ isn't even the worst of it, but they're trying, God damn it they're trying. With each set of pictures coming out in waves. 

The ones on the beach were obviously taken from someone on a boat.

There are others that have already made the rounds but the ones getting published, in print anyways, are the ones taken from inside our room.

And they could be long lens photography but my money is on a drone, with fucking infrared night vision built in.

And they're calling Timmy BOTTOM BOI. 

Fuck that's mean! And mostly inaccurate. 

They're saying we belong to a BDSM cult out of Mexico. Or more to the point, I'm running a BDSM cult out of Mexico. So how fucking stupid is that! 

I should fucking sue!  
__  
__ 

■ CABO - May 2019 - Revival  
■ Curtain Call  
__

Tim works his cock with his free hand, his right leg elevated so his foot rests flush a top the mattress.

His left arm is raised, bent backwards at the elbow with his wrist captured by the sash that's drawn diagonally across his back and secured to his right ankle.

It's so simple really, but an imminently effective way of restraining someone. It uses their own body against them. Or in this case for them.

And it spreads him in a way that accentuates the curve of his ass as well as the sinewy beauty of his muscle structure. 

It also gives me the opportunity to work him from behind, he's more open this way and I can easily reach anything that captures my fancy. 

So the task at hand is not just to endure but to remain upright as well.

Nifty little trick.  
__  
__

He's almost there again. And thank God for those little blue pills. Otherwise we wouldn't be where we are right now. Not even fucking close.

And it's not to break him down in any way, but to build him up again. 

To let him know he's in control.

Because he fucking is.

Has been from the start.

He might have missed the memo along the way but we are getting there.

Slowly. Fucking slowly.  
__  
__

His left leg tremors under the strain and I can feel his concentration wavering. But we're close. So close.

I get him to the precipice, then dial it back as we breathe and try to fucking calm down. To redirect our energies away from the usual, the boringly normal, to a place that benefits us both and where we can finally center ourselves. 

It seems my cock has been in him for what must be hours, days, weeks. 

And even years later he will still feel me there.

And I will feel him around me as well.

We've become more than we've ever been. 

And so I have him. Both literally and any way the cosmos desires. 

But what he doesn't seem to understand is that he has me too. 

That his power is equal to, or in this case surpasses mine.  
__

And within the hiddenness of the blindfold, he has the advantage of being extremely focused, more centered, and more aware of the nuances of this little exercise.

This journey we're undertaking, not solely designed to discover what's going on inside of the two of us, although that's important too, is more of a pilgrimage towards a profoundly emotional experience. 

It has gone beyond the sexual.

So while he can feel my breathing, the rapid beating of my own heart, there's a spot deep within Timmy that recognizes the pulsing of my cock. 

He knows that what is of me, has now become a part of of him. 

And even after I am long gone from his body, and perhaps from my own body as well, his mind memory reflex will recognize and accept that I am still there. That I have established myself inside of him, occupying a spot so deep within that belongs solely to him, to me, to us.

And with that, he's more connected to me than I am to myself.

A brilliant man once prophisized that the key to a man's heart isn't necessarily through his stomach.

And truer words were never spoken. 

The asshole, the center of our being, has more feeling and has undoubtedly become far more fucking intimate. 

__  
__

■ L.A. - May 2019  
■ Rage against the Machine  
__

If someone, my agent, my publicist, my fucking friends - and they know who they are - tell me one more time to fucking calm down, I'm going to fucking go ballistic. 

They don't get it. 

How could they when we've been pretty much under the radar. But I'm not worried about me. I can handle this. They've gone after me in the past with far more asinine headlines that in the grand scheme of things don't mean shit.

But this is fucking different.

They’ve never come after someone who is with me.

And I've never dragged someone else down. With me, without me or in any way that could hurt another human being.

Not anyone who didn’t deserve it.

And certainly not anyone I cared about.  
__  
__ 

■ CABO - May 2019 - Climax  
■ One more time with feeling.  
__

Cradling Timmy's hand within mine (the warmth of his hand warming mine), and with the sheathing of his cock, the heat of him doubles our combined efforts of taking him to the precipice one more time.

My other arm wraps around his chest supporting his body as his heartbeat hammers wildly from within. 

Tim's breathing labours as this time -- 

This fucking time --

We are catapulted beyond our worldly selves and into carnal overload.

And we soar. We fucking fly.

The spell has been broken, his voice restored, and the roar that comes out of him is like no other.

It's guttural, and savage, and a ritualistic rebirth all in one.

His body fights against the bonds, struggling within my grasp.

But he's no longer bound by any earthly limitations, only by what he perceives as perimeters he has yet to surpass. 

And keeping him safe, I continue to storm him from the inside as we teeter on the periphery between what is now and what has once been. 

And if I didn't know better, the cum that erupts out of him could well have materialized from my very own cock.

That cock contained within him spilling out into his hand, and by extension, my own.

It is well and done. The circle has been completed. 

And we are one. We have become one.  
__  
__

■ NYC - July 2020  
■ Broken  
__

"I think your shower's broken." Armie calls out.

"No it's not." I tell him, entering the bath. "You know there are codes you punch to get it going."

"I'm not punching anything this early in the morning except that fucking code box."

"Here, let me show you again." I say for the hundredth, no thousandth time.

But Armie has other things on his mind, and has clearly figured out how to use our smart shower that can easily be controlled directly from his phone. 

This was just his excuse to get me up and into the bath at this ungodly hour. And perhaps take my mind off anything that might be troubling me of late. 

Although, without telling any tales out of school, it's Armie who so badly needs a distraction these days.

And if I can be this morning's diversion, so be it.  
__  
__ 

■ CABO - May 2019 -  
■ Resolution  
__

I settle the robe around Timmy's slim shoulders. His blindfold, removed, the sash from around his wrist and ankle lies forgotten, puddled on the floor in my haste in removing it. 

And he's been shaking for a full minute now.

He's both limp as a piece of overcooked linguini and yet still rigid in his demeanor, and it's as if he has run several marathons. And perhaps we both have. 

It sure feels like it.

It's amazing we've made it this far without uttering more than a single word. I mean, shit, we've been communicating all along but not speaking.

And we're not speaking now either. Just being.

He leans heavily against me; my body taking on his weight and all the accumulated weights of his ordeal. 

He should be free of all this but he's still hanging on to whatever the fuck is stopping him from accepting that we have indeed succeeded in every possible way. And in that success, any further barriers have disappeared. 

We've won, although he hasn't realized it yet.  
__  
__

■ L.A. - October 2019  
■ After the Fall  
__

On this lazy October day, Tim has returned from his trip and all the jumping through hoops this circus of promoting entails; and even though he's fighting exhaustion, he seems eminently glad to finally be in my home.

"Hey Armie --"

"Yeah?" 

"Wanna go to my premiere with me?"

Holy fuck, where did that come from! We've been laying low for months as per instructions from multiple sources. Not the least of which are our representatives, friends, family and finally the inevitable string of lawyers handling the case. 

"Which one?" I figure that's safe enough to ask. 

He's got a shitload of stuff coming up and even more in the works so he's got to be more precise about these things.

"Ugh?" 

"Which premiere?"

"One of 'em." He answers, his vagueness not making his thought process any clearer. "Not Little Women. Maybe Dispatch in the spring." He continues, mumbling to himself.

It might not work, he's got a play. I've got a play. 

On two different fucking continents. 

Thank God none of his projects were affected. Turns out it only confirmed the rumours that were circulating anyway and some people really don't give a fuck where you put your dick. 

Haven't I always said that? 

And if I haven't, I should.

"I have to be in Hawaii for Christmas, you could come with." Now there's a better idea.

Tim looks at me with a relieved expression on his face, probably so fucking glad his half baked scheme of walking a red carpet has been swept under the rug.

He really needs to rest, to sleep. He's going to burn out if he doesn't. 

__  
__

■ CABO - May 2019  
■ Refraction  
__

It will be morning soon. Tim lies beside me in what can certainly be described as a post orgasmic coma. 

Exhausted by not just the physical exertion but the mental one as well.

I, on the other hand, have not been so lucky. 

I've got shit on my mind that just won't go away.

Because this has become more than real. And now, fucking now, he might want more.

And I'll give him anything he wants but at what price. 

I'm practically tapped out. Emotionally anyway.

And it's my own fucking fault.  
__  
__

■ NYC - July 2020  
■ Judgement Day  
__

Stressful doesn't even begin to describe how harrowing this time has been. And this has now become less of an emotional response and more of a vendetta on Armie's part.

One year. One fucking year that started to go to shit the moment we began our little getaway in Cabo. We just didn't know it at the time.

Is ignorance really bliss?

It was then. 

In hindsight it was probably good that we were ignorant, although if we'd had a fucking heads up, the scandal and resulting shit-show would have been stopped at the beach.

But it's been even more stressful on Armie. And with the way this fucking year has been going I don't know how he has managed. 

One thing we've done has been to unplug.

Armie has been trying to limit his time on social media, and I say trying because he's just not very good at it. Limiting, I mean.

We need a blackout or some weird cosmic occurrence to happen that shuts down the internet for awhile. Not anything disastrous or even widespread but something that could even be limited to an area as small as our loft. 

No one would tell him about it and Armie would be none the wiser.

Twenty-four or seventy-two hours would probably do -- just enough that he'd stop the compulsive checking and searching that is making him, and by extension, me, nuts.  
__

And the idea of getting way from all this craziness is very tempting. But ever since Cabo and more recently Hawaii (and with even more pictures being leaked while we were there -- why the fuck didn't we learn our lesson), staying at home seems to be the best solution.

It's just not a plan that can go on long term.

And the lawsuits are finally coming to an end, arbitration at least, where I think that might be the single most pertinent thing that's been bothering him these days. 

They want a settlement. Armie wants an apology. But then that makes them liable and they're just not going to do that.

The pictures were enough and almost impossible to fight, but the headlines and accompanying story was just fucking wrong.

And that's where he got them. 

Although Armie says he doesn't want a dime from this, which is mostly true, what he really wants is to set a precedent.

Between Armie and Brian, and surprisingly Luca who got roped into this because he fucking loves a good love story, no real damage was done. 

I mean, granted the shit-storm made for quite the scandal at the time, but Armie was convinced something far worse would come along and no one would remember those stolen photos -- although the headlines were another animal entirely. 

And it did. Something new came along, and will again for that person.

But this cancel-culture that's been happening did have an impact. 

Armie lost people and I lost even more, but in the end they weren't really fans (those people stuck around), the others just wanted to follow the newest and shiniest thing.

And tarnished only fascinates for a time; and then they too were gone.

But the joke is on them.

Or it will be.

No one knows yet but something really big is going to happen. 

Something earth shattering. 

Then who will be fucking laughing!  
__  
__

■ FIN - HOTEL 7.4 One Raccoon, Two Raccoon - Tabloid Shit-Storm  
__


	5. HOTEL 7.5 - Panic in the Streets - Pushing the Envelope - The Hell We've Been Thrown Into

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this final chapter, we find out the inevitable tabloid-shitstorm has indeed hit the fan. And as the guys take a run in the park, it sinks in just how bad the situation has become. While back in Cabo, Armie helps Tim work out some of the kinks that were bound to happen during a somewhat acrobatic evening. 
> 
> In Part 2, Armie and Tim decide to get ahead of the situation by appearing on Ellen, while later, Armie comes to terms on just how stressful a lawsuit can be. And *Archie* finds out Tim is a force to be reckoned with.

_____

☆ This was written long ago. Well before the RL situation occurred. Of course the usual disclaimer still applies. 

☆ ■ Disclaimer: this is a fictional depiction of the two actors (and other peripheral characters) mentioned within the following storyline  
_____  
_____

■ HOTEL 7.5 Part 1 - Panic in the Streets - Eggs for Breakfast  
■ HOTEL 5.5 Part 2 - Pushing the Envelope - The Hell We've Been Thrown Into  
_____  
_____

■ HOTEL 7.5 Part 1 - Panic in the Streets  
■ Eggs for Breakfast

__  
__

■ Getting ahead of the Madness  
■ August 2020  
__

I don't know what Brian was thinking

"It's brilliant." Armie insisted. 

Well I don't know about that either. "Let's get ahead of it", he'd said. But if that was really the case, none if this would have fucking happened. 

I don't blame Armie. It's on both of us. 

But it's primarily on THEM.

The way this type of thing tittilates.

And frankly our personal life is not up for public consumption and anyone who says we gave up our privacy to become celebrities is just fucking nuts. 

Or as Armie puts it -- 

Deluded.  
__

■ Through the Park  
■ NYC - July 2020  
__

Armie ignores me as I struggle to keep up with his longer strides, and as he gains speed, it's become the bicycle race to the berm all fucking over again.

Catching up, I grab onto his arm, practically gasping as I try to catch my breath, "Why do you have to run so fast?"

He looks down at me but doesn't slow his pace. 

"Because I'm bigger, stronger and work out more than you."

Seems about right. I guess. 

So I leave him to decide if he's making this a race to the finish or he can tone it down to a leisurely and companionable run through the park. 

Armie, in a very wise move, slows enough where I can actually match our strides and carry out a somewhat normal conversation.  
__

But there's chaos when we emerge from the wooded area. On the other side of the gates, camped out like they're awaiting some natural disaster or a death watch, is what I was fearing most.

Paparazzi, the media. Vultures every one of them.

With all the trucks and their cameras, along with hordes of people milling about; they have me wondering how long they've been out there. 

Waiting. 

Although I can't say that I really know or understand the fascination. But what I do know is what they're doing is definitely not there for shits or giggles.  
__

"Just ignore them." Armie says. "Pretend they're not there."

Sure, easier said than done. 

"After all the bullshit, and mostly lies they wrote about us, I'm not fucking doing the walk of shame just to appease the media." I say, certain they're coming after the last remaining part of me that hasn't been destroyed.

"No one asked you to do the walk of shame." Armie snaps. "And since when do you feel shameful about us?"

"I don't." I hiss back; maintaining eye contact while creating a pleasant facade for the press.  
__

We've been so careful. And while I go out, and Armie goes out, we rarely appear in public together.

And we've never been ambushed like this. It feels like some fucking macabre movie premiere; the cameras clicking like crazy; each photographer vying for the best position, to get the best image.

To catch us in not the most flattering of positions.

"Put your shirt back on." I say, turning to Armie who has now taken a protective step in front, mopping his face with his discarded top. 

He gives me a shit-eating grin; proceeding to run the shirt over his shoulders and down his chest; gathering sweat and dirt and the interest of everyone in the crowd. 

He doesn't wave or acknowledge anyone but giving them a show seems to be his plan. A plan we've never discussed and I'm not privy to. And all I want is to disappear. 

But the worst of it is, we didn't drive here. There's no vehicle to speed us away to safety.

Armie pulls out his phone; handing it over to me. "Call your sister." He says with what he tries to convey as the saddest of expressions. 

"Wha --"

"Just do it." There's desperation in his tone. And yes, my man does go there.

And desperate times call for desperate measures.  
__  
__

"I'm not going to say a word." Pauline announces as we jump into the car.

"She just said seven." Armie whispers to me in his booming undertone.

I give him my death glare, which would normally antagonize him even more, but he does shut up.

Thank fucking God he shuts up.  
__  
__

"Why did you do that today?" I ask when we're safely back at the loft.

"What?"

"Prostitute yourself in front of the press." 

"I did nothing of the sort." Armie gets really formal when he's pissed.

"You took off your shirt to give them a show."

"That's what they expect. Are you jealous?"

"Not jealous. But I am curious." 

Come on, we're on the same fucking side. Why should I have to defend myself with him? 

"Well curiosity killed the cat." Armie states as he heads into the bedroom to change.  
__

"Aren't you going to check online?" I call after him.

"No. If something's up Brian will call." He sticks his head out the doorway, looking practically as defeated as when we returned from Cabo. And it's a case of fucking déjà vu all over again.

"Gimme," I motion to his phone, I don't want to wait to be chewed out by Brian or my PR team or even my fucking sister.

Armie hands it over, when he comes back into the room. And I can see he's already checked out the usual suspects for any sign of pictures. Wow, it's all fucking over the place. Nothing seedy but the chatter is rampant. 

And I really don't think we can sue this time around because a lot of what they're saying is just more of what has been eluded to for quite some time. 

There are headlines about the age difference, who is doing what to whom, and whether we are secretly married. 

Additionally, they've figured out we are living together, and I have the distinct impression they will be soon camping out on our doorstep. If they aren't already.

But we're in New York for fuck sakes. It's not LA.. People take the subway to the theatre. Actors, singers, the fucking orchestra, and nobody cares. Or stalks them all the way back to their home.

But this is news. Big news.

And it's part of the reason Armie left California. He says it was to be with me, but he never once asked me to move there. 

His house is beautiful and spacious with a big fucking backyard for God's sakes.

But no. We're here, shoehorned into a place a fifth its size. With no yard. Not even a decent parking space. 

But we love it. 

And Armie has let me pick out whatever I wanted. I mean he moaned and fucking groaned and bitched over the furniture mix-up not to mention the fiasco with the shower. But all in all, it's become our home.

"Tim." Armie breaks into my reverie, "give it a rest for the night." 

"Sure." I reluctantly hand his phone back to him.

My own phone was the victim of an unfortunate accident and I haven't been out to replace it. I know I could order something, but without leaving the loft or having any place to go in this maddness of pandemic proportions; I just haven't been in any hurry.

Plus Brian and Pauline both hate dealing with Armie and there's a part of me that finds that fucking hilarious. 

And the bitching I get from Armie is a small sacrifice for the quiet of not having to deal with the riff raff. 

Except when his mother calls.  
__  
__

"Do you think your mother's behind this?" I ask.

The media frenzy made for restless night for both of us, and with all the tossing and turning, I'm damned if I'm going to sleep on the sofa.

"Nah, she might be bat-shit crazy but she doesn't really give two fucks about my career. Or yours." He adds.

"Well I did answer your phone the other day." Oh fuck, that was a disaster. 

"Who is this?" She'd snapped, clearly not impressed someone other than her son had access to his private number.

"Speak up young man." The words bullet out of her mouth. 

"It's Timothée." I'd repeated, although I wasn't completely sure if she knew who I was.

She remained silent, where I decided to press on with, "Timothée Chalamet? I did a movie with Armie."

"Really?" She'd answered. Questioning either my true name or whether I actually worked with her son or maybe she was even dubious as to whether the film actually got made.

"Can I take a message?" 

"No you may not." She'd replied and quickly hung up.

I told Armie about it that night and all he said was, "I'm sorry." Which judging from his expression, I got the distinct impression she'd been speaking to him recently.

He looked like someone had beaten him up or stolen his dog. 

I tried to comfort him, but he just grabbed his iPhone, heading towards our gym. 

I could hear sets of weights clanking on their bars for more than an hour afterwards. 

Fuck her if she upsets him this much. 

I don't understand their whole family dynamic because I haven't experienced it, but to have actually lived it must have been hell.  
__

Armie comes into the living room, a damp towel from his shower draped over his shoulders, and nothing else. And my man is looking so hot that I don't have the heart to admonish him.

He stretches his long body beside me on the sofa, his hair drenched, the damp ends of the towel, clinging to his chest in a way that has my cock twitching and saliva pooling in my mouth.

He could be a fucking Pavlovian experiment. 

For both sexes -- hell he's a turn on for every gender and species, and as Oliver once pontificated, animal, vegetable and mineral on this earth.

But he's mine and I won't ever fucking forget it.

__

■ CABO - May 2019  
__

I wake up to Armie softly rubbing my shoulders. I hurt. All over. I never thought being restrained for an extended period of time would result in this type of soreness. But it does. Hurt I mean.

I must have moaned because Armie stops what he's doing to sit up; turning on the bedside light.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

I nod into his chest; his arm still secured around me. 

"Words." He admonishes as if I was five.

And he knows what will get me talking more than anything. I mean, I'd have to be a real fucking mess not to respond.

"I'm okay." 

He gives me a dubious look.

"OKAY!" 

He smirks and I realize I might have said that a bit louder than I'd intended. 

"Time is it?" I mumble.

"Just after 4. Lots of time before the flight."

The fucking flight! And we're going home commercial. 

Fuck.

I don't think I'm up to this kind of travel drudgery. I ache all over but it's nothing to write home about. Not that I'm ever writing to my sister, let alone my mom, about all the debauchery that's happened here. And it's only a few sore muscles. 

My arms. My legs. 

My dick.

Armie resumes the massage. Strong fingers playing over my shoulders, moving to my back, my chest, and if he goes any further, I'm going to be completely raw. 

"What are you doing?" I ask when he slides me further down the bed, his mouth migrating to my navel.

"Getting the kinks out." He swirls his tongue around, flicking it into the crevice with quick little jabs.

"Ha!" 

But he keeps on with his exploration, ignoring me to run his tongue further down my happy trail. 

Down. Down. 

Oh yeah.  
__

He's being so gentle. His lips, soft around my cock, travel to my sac, drawing me in. Carefully. Wonderfully. Tongue snaking out to lick around -- and around. Then down to my hole that amazingly isn't as sore as I would have thought. 

And he tunnels inside not with his fingers but with that same tongue, taking broad strokes to excite, to lube, and finally to enter.

My toes curl and I so badly want to touch my cock.

But his hands reach up, pinning mine to my sides. Our fingers interlacing, as his tongue continues to make slow forays into my most private of places.

And he was right when he told me I would feel him there - forever. 

I can still feel him throbbing, resonating deeply inside. And not just physically, but deep within my soul, I can feel him pressing right up towards my heart; and that's a part of him that will never leave. 

But it's his mouth that now has me hard as stone and ready to cum without any other contact but that of his lips and his tongue. 

Inexplicably tears fill my eyes, and I look down to see Armie, who has rolled me backwards onto my shoulders, gazing unwaveringly up at me.

Handsome sonofabitch. 

And that's the thought that breaks through to my melancholy, telling me I'm safe, I'm protected and I'm fucking loved.

And I guess there's still life in me yet. I thought I was completely done for but I'm soon howling at the (fading) moon all fucking over again.

"Wow." I say when I am finally able to speak. "I didn't think, I mean after everything we did earlier, that -- you know."

"Yeah. But you have to admit it was BOUND to happen." Armie jokes as he releases my hands. 

"You're so funny!" I reach over to tickle him but he's too fucking fast. 

Throwing me over his shoulder caveman style.  
__

So while I'd love to have a good long soak in the massive tub they have here, there's just no time.

The sun is coming up.

And Armie slides me down into his arms, not to cradle, but to hoist me into a more comfortable position, as he heads towards --

Oh fuck no!

God please -- not the shower that he seems to think only works when it's either a thousand degrees or like a subzero freezer. 

But he's a smart motherfucker and doesn't let go until the water is what he decrees the perfect temperature. 

It's a fundamental fact that the big guy likes to control many things. The shower temperature being only the tip of the iceberg, or in this case, (wow it's hot), volcano. 

I don't know if I'll ever get the opportunity to thwart his bogarting of the shower dials, but if I'm ever given the chance I'll make it so fucking complicated that he'll have to beg me to adjust it for him.  
__

And this much needed shower is twofold, as it gets the kinks out, as Armie is quick to point out, and will help to get the orgy stink off before we're crammed into the claustrophobia of the recycled air, and mind numbing noise of the plane's cabin. 

No need for everyone on the flight to figure out what we've been doing.  
__

■ Eggs For Breakfast  
■ August 2020 - Oh Brian, what have you done!  
__

I know what he's thinking. Much the same as Armie, I guess. 

For two guys who butt heads on just about everything, they've sure picked a whopper of a time to agree on something.  
__

Armie's agent has signed off, but it's really only a symbolic gesture because Armie fucking does whatever he fucking wants. They can threaten to quit, and they often do, but the ones that stick around the longest are the ones that let him do whatever the fuck he wants.

Brian, on the other hand can be a subtle sonofabitch, with a bulldog of a bite.  
__  
__

"And can we include the two of you, Mr Hammer?" Says the girl who is setting things up, and looks not a day over twelve.

Armie has consented to do the pre-interview himself. 

No need to include me until I'm needed; they'll probably just ask him if he still has eggs for breakfast. 

This is all about him and his move to New York. How he wants to do theatre and travel around the city unnoticed without all the problems he encountered in L.A.

Fuck, who are we kidding, it's also about me. 

No. It's all about me.  
__  
__

■ CABO - May 2019  
__

The call comes in just as we're about to leave the hotel room. 

Armie is not so subtly trying to get me to lug my own suitcase down to the lobby, but my phone rings in just a nick of time and I have to stop to answer.

And the news Brian has to impart is bad. Fucking bad.

We don't know the scope of it yet, but the initial pics of Armie and I on the beach have me wondering just where else they've snapped us.

And you'd think the one's of us fucking in the ocean with our bodies mostly under water are enough of a personal invasion, but to have Brian all over my ass about discretion and fucking decorum is more than I can handle. 

And who wants decorum while fucking anyway? But I don't say that out loud.

I don't know if Brian's angrier at me or the paps. Although he did mention Armie several times between harping on about fucking knowing better.  
__  
__

■ NYC - August 2020  
__

"Did you finish up already?" I ask as Armie closes the top on his Mac. 

"Yeah. She just wanted to set up a few talking points before hand."

"And would those talking points be me?"

"Among other things."

"What other things."

This is starting to sound more and more like the conversation at the Piave Memorial. Dancing around issues, not really giving up too much, but taking a risk on what already has been said. And fucking implied. 

"Listen, I'm not going to let us be dragged into something lewd or embarrassing."

I know they won't do lewd but embarrassing seems to sell pretty fucking well right about now.

"We've got a couple of weeks. Let's see if shit settles down before then."

"Armie, I can't even leave the house. They're out there, camped on our fucking doorstep."

"No they aren't."

I don't know if I can break it to him that alone he's not really the story, but if we happen to venture out together, mayhem will ensue. Mark my words as my mother says. Well she really doesn't say that but you get the idea.  
__  
__ 

■ Somewhere over the Hell we've been thrown into -  
■ May 2019  
__

The plane ride home was hellacious. Right from boarding to the minute we deplaned.

It's like everyone on the flight had seen at least some of the pictures. The fact that we were sitting together didn't help the situation. And you'd think fucking first class would be, well classier. 

Armie took the aisle seat as usual; to stretch out his legs and on this, particular occasion, protect me from the masses. 

Flying is not an easy ride for me but Armie slipped me something to calm me down so I was able to curl up and at least try to get some rest. 

But then on landing we were blindsided to find out our flight information had been leaked, and once we were past baggage claim we could plainly see them coming for us. 

Only Brian was on top of things with inhanced security, I mean how fucking big to you have to be to protect a 6 foot 5 inch guy, but they whisked us quickly out of there without too much hysteria happening.  
__  
__

■ September 2020  
■ L.A. California  
__

"Calm the fuck down." Armie reaches over to take the can from my hand. "And leave the Red Bull alone."

"It helps me focus."

"No it doesn't. It just hypes you up and you start bouncing off the walls."

"I need to be alert."

"So be alert. But don't fucking make your heart explode."

"That's just an urban legend."

"And you want to test that theory?"  
__

Armie's Mac is set up at the kitchen island. We thought about his office but there were just too many personal items in the background and we really don't need the world to see our pictures.

They've seen enough of them as it is. 

So it's the kitchen island by default. 

We hear the countdown and the words "and we're live". Well live on tape but that's the way Ellen rolls.

She seems friendly and safe and it went well the last time Armie and I were there.  
____  
____

BLUE💚4YOU early posting .. 13/07/2020

HOTEL 7.5b Part 2  
■ Pushing the Envelope  
■ The Hell We've Been Thrown Into  
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LINK to previous chapter 7.5a

https://m.facebook.com/groups/473068223457476?view=permalink&id=722776961819933  
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☆ ■ Disclaimer: this is a fictional depiction of the two actors (and other peripheral characters) mentioned within the following storyline  
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■ Breathing Room  
■ NYC - August 2020  
__

■ Timmy:

I shrug him off when he tries to put an arm around me. 

"Armie, leave me alone, I don't want to do anything, okay."

He immediately drops his arm and I can't tell what he's thinking, but he's not happy and I definitely feel a storm brewing. 

"Say something." I say, resigned and wanting to shout when he starts to walk away. But somehow my voice remains the same.

"Well fuck Timmy, I didn't think you would ever -"

"What? Deny you sex, you mean?" I want to see his face.

"No Tim." He turns to look me in the eye. "Deny me you."

"You've taken away you."

Well fuck me.  
__  
__

■ NYC to Hancock Park - August 2020  
___

■ Armie:

Tim has disappeared. I mean I fucking know where he is, but for all intents and purposes, he's gone underground.  
__

"You know you've got shitty friends." He tells me. 

I gaze up at the screen, he looks tired.

"I know only the best people." I retort, trying my damndest to appear upbeat.

"We're not talking about "people"," Tim uses the air-quotes, "I'm saying your friends are --" He shrugs. 

"Don't stop there."

"They're just mean, okay."

I have to laugh. "You've got no idea."

"I think I do."

"Nope. You haven't been around them long enough to form an opinion."

"Fuck you." He laughs too. It's good to hear. He's getting it now.

"It's all a shtick."

"Okay, okay. I'm getting that. But they're still mean."

"Did your widdle fweelings get hurt?"

"You could say so." 

Fuck. He IS hurt. I didn't think he'd be so -- honest.

"They didn't mean it." I hope I sound confident in that. 

"How do you know?"

"Should I tell them Elio is off limits?"

"I don't need you to fight my battles."

WTF! BATTLES!!! Just how serious is he taking this?

I mean, Tyler likes to jerk my chain, but he brought Tim into it this time and well some people just never know if he's serious or not. He's often not, but once and a while, especially if he's drunk or high, things can get out of hand. And, well, ugly.

Case in point, he once jokingly asked me if I've ever spattered Timmy like a Jackson Pollack. He claims not to remember saying it, and I'm fucking glad there was just the two of us in the room, so no, I don't think he's the best person for me to go to for this.

I'll speak to Niki. He likes Timmy and might be more sympathetic to the fact that Tim doesn't have our history and ability to cut somebody down and smile while doing it, then totally forget it ever happened.

I mean, fuck! Boys will be boys and there's a few around us that claim we never grew up.  
__

"They're just jealous." I tell him.

"That I'm staying at your house? Walking your dog?"

"So how is he?" 

"Oh that's right, you're not missing me, just Archie."

I was worried he's going to ask who I love more. How do I explain that while I love them both, Archie in a doggie way, my love for Tim is different, it always has been -- all encompassing. Human. Stronger. 

"He was my roommate before you." It's the safest answer I can come up with. 

Tim looks away as he silently plays with a paperclip he must have found on my desk.

"How is pre-production going?" I change the subject away from something I really don't want to have to explain.

"It's going." He mumbles, still looking down.

I'm so fucking proud of him. I mean, he is musical, but to master the piano and now the guitar the way he has -- not just the instrument but to learn all the mannerisms he'll need along with everything else, well -- he's amazing.

He's also been protesting out there, and I wish I could be with him but it's just not possible. 

"You're staying safe? I saw where you're out marching." I say it softly but his head moves and I can tell he's listening, even though he's still playing with the fucking wire clip.

"S'okay. I'm not in any danger." He knows me well. 

Because I do worry. He's really putting himself out there. And can't I be proud and worry at the same time? 

But I don't want to seem like a mother hen.  
__

"Hey, what's going on in there?" I tap my temple then put my hand over his image for the second it takes for him to notice.

And I can breathe again when Tim finally looks up at the screen.

"We have to get you back out here." He says finally, and I don't know where that's coming from but he might actually miss me.

I raise an eyebrow at the screen, nothing more, but it speaks volumes. He left me to go to L.A. without asking me to tag along. Would I have gone? Maybe. But he didn't give me the fucking chance.  
__

"You're driving yourself nuts." He tells me, again changing the subject in another total one-eighty, "let alone what it's doing to us."

Oh fuck. 

"And what, pray tell, am I doing that's so detrimental to *us*?" Tread lightly lad.

"This incessant searching on the web for shit to post or tweet or whatever the fuck you're doing."

"I'm educating people." 

"No doubt. But it's not healthy and it has to stop. Even for a little while." 

We had this very same conversation before he went and hoped a plane to Hollywood.

That we're having it again frustrates me to no end.

Maybe I had a reason to block out what was happening between us and become more socially conscious. It feels like a chicken and the egg type of thing, with no idea which came first. 

Did I really shut Timmy out because I knew he would be leaving? How pathetic is that! And what does that say about me?

I have no idea why I do these things, self-sabotage has been a recurring theme in my life and that it's rearing its ugly head again is troubling to say the least.

"Ok, I'll think about it." I tell him and get my first smile of the video chat.

It's such a beautiful smile.

And my heart skips a beat. He invited me.

That it was to my own home is completely irrelevant. He asked.  
__  
__

■ On the Road again - August 2020  
__

I have to tell people. 

I'm not like Tim. His family knows. Mine, not so much.

I don't want to. And it's really none of their fucking business. But in light of the upcoming interview, I figure it's best I at least make the effort to keep them informed.

So renting a car, I take it upon myself to drive across the country. I could fly like Tim but the logistics and the fact that I'll have to self-isolate each time makes driving the only real option.

Plus it gives me lots of time to think.

Not always the best idea, but this is something so big that I don't want to be blindsided by shit I hadn't even thought of yet. 

And even though we are talking, Tim has distanced himself from just about everything that means something to us these days.

If I didn't know better, I'd say he's cheating on me.  
__  
__

■ Cabo - May 2019  
__

■ Timmy:

We've packed up everything but the contents of the gift basket. And because there's no fucking way this is going to clear customs with us, Armie has decided it will be shipped home.

"What?" He asks, "Do you expect me to leave it for the help? What the fuck do you think they're going to do with an 18 inch silicone dong anyways?"

I smirked, and part of me wondered, and secretly hoped, if Armie felt he was now more prepared for the challenge. 

On the other hand, the little blue pills fit right into our carry-on, so who gives a flying fuck if some customs agent sees them on the scanner.  
__

And part of me wants to think that years later we can tell future generations, and pass down the tale about how we're now the proud owners of assorted porn paraphernalia and why grandpa owns a giant horse cock.  
__  
__

■ Hell in a Hand Basket - August 2020  
__

■ Armie:

I've officially entered hell. Or more precisely, the place my mother lives. 

Problem is I get sucked in every time. 

I see her street at the back of the gated community; with its well manicured lawns, expensive vehicles in the drives or more likely inside the garages that house multiple expensive vehicles. 

Not that I see anything wrong or have a problem with that, because I have an affinity for those myself. But after everything I've seen, both online and in person over these last few months, the commercialism that drives our nation is not as prevalent or as affordable in all corners of the socio-economic regions of America.

This place is similar in the size of the mortgages, but not where I grew up; not even close to the ocean breezes and endless sand of the Caymans. But it's where my mom chose to live back in 2012 after the split with my dad.

And she's still here. Says she likes it. It's safe and pretty and is surrounded by her kind of people. Not that she says that part out loud but it is implied and I'm sure she's said it at least once before. 

She's rigid in her ways, and scares the shit out of Tim. He hasn't met her, but judging by the conversation we had the day she called, when Tim picked up by accident, I'm sure she had some choice words for him.

He brushed it off but how could you not be affected by her venom. 

I think he's not telling me the whole story.  
__

And there she is, seated in her usual chair in the parlour; placed where she can see the comings and goings in her neighbourhood; although she would never admit to snooping. 

Not that. Nice people don't do those things.  
__

Her political affiliation has never been the same as mine. Our spirituality isn't the same either, if you could even call it that. 

Sure I'm spiritual, and ethical, and on most days kind. Or maybe not kind, but I don't take advantage of those who cannot fend for themselves.

That makes me a kind person. In some books anyways. Because I fucking well will defend myself in a fight; and I seem to be fighting a lot more these days. 

Time was Tim and I would be on the same side. Now he says I'm over aggressive and combative. I think he's been reading up on shit he knows nothing about.

And I've got shit on my mind. And by the way this world is going, there won't be much left after this is all over and we're all able to roam the streets freely again.

Injustice just pisses me off. I can't understand the rampant complacency and habitual blindness that is so prevalent right now.

That it also occurs to me that it happens within my mother's home is something else I've forgotten. I must block this shit out every time I leave; otherwise how could I ever survive back in the real world.

Having someone who purports to love you, tear you down for being yourself is a whole other set of PTSD problems I've come to ignore.  
___

I saw a shrink for the longest time and Timmy keeps hinting that perhaps it's time I go for a refresher course. 

I think I might have told him to fuck off. 

And then I also might have mentioned it was none of his business and if he really wanted to help it might be a good idea to fuck off. Again.

Eloquence isn't my strong suit when I'm backed into a corner. 

Tim is finding that out the hard way. 

Could be the reason I wasn't invited to join him in L.A.  
__  
__

And now the fucking Spa is closed. That's where I was headed when I escaped the hell I'd been thrown into. Or more precisely, out of. It was to be serene and restful and give me time to regroup. But now it's closed. 

I'm going to have to text Timmy about that. 

Not that it matters anyway. The lad doesn't drive. Or at least I've never seen him drive. There are pictures of him behind the wheel and he's done so on various movie sets, but out on the open road. Forget it. 

I'm not having his mangled body on my conscience. He's not driving out into the desert just so some vultures, of the raptor kind, not the media kind, can circle over his beautiful body. 

Better he stays in my luxurious home and walks my dog whenever he needs to shit. Archie, not Tim.  
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And so I move on to the next part of my tour through America's heartland. 

The area is so big, so fucking majestic, it takes my breath away. John Ford fucking knew what he was doing all those years ago using Monument Valley, immortalizing the American west so people in tiny hot movie theatres could ride along with Hopalong and shoot 'em up with the best of them. 

It tops any of those spaghetti westerns Leone tried to make. 

The youth today has no fucking idea that the world exists outside their ten-thousand inch TV screens. That virtual reality began long before it was virtual and kids actually played outside and got dirty doing it.

I'm glad I fucking know how to change a light bulb and shit. I do stuff. With my hands. And keeping busy has always been my refuge. 

Fuck, I have to get out more. Take Timmy camping. I'm sure that will go over well. 

Maybe we can take Archie too and they can fight over who gets to curl up beside me at night.  
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Oh my fucking God, where did that hostility come from?  
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I wonder if I can get a signal out here.

I need to hear his voice.  
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So I punch in his number, one I haven't used in awhile but mysteriously still remains in my memory when I'm so tired from driving all day and a good part of the night. It starts to ring, and something miraculous happens. I can breathe again.

Hot damn, I can breathe.

But he doesn't answer. I try again on his new phone, Giullian's phone, the fucking one at the house but there's still no fucking answer.

I didn't call Tim after I left my Mom's but I'm sure he saw my tweets, he knew I was struggling and needed some time alone. To digest and to fucking center myself.

So why the fuck isn't he answering?  
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■ Running on the Fumes  
■ Cabo Redux - 2020  
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Timmy:

Giullian hands me another beer while I sling the guitar over my neck.

It feels fucking good to be down here again. And even though we're not staying in the honeymoon suite, it's still a huge step up, entertainment wise, from the isolated splendor of Armie's house.

We'd taken a trip to wander down the beach the other day, although it was mostly deserted, it reminded me of the fuck with Armie in the surf.

And now with this impromptu party on the deck, it's become the most fun I've had in weeks. 

There's a pool and everything. And at some point during the evening I strip down to my boxers to partake of the bubbling efflorescence of the spa's hidden jets. 

Giullian too, hops in and it's probably the most relaxed I've seen him as well. The two of us taking some well deserved time away from all the endless bullshit that comes with preparing for a role.

Around dawn the next day I check my phone to find a half dozen missed messages. What the fuck is up with that? 

At some point I'll have to remind Armie I've got fucking friends too.  
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■ Fake Smiles and Grandiose Tales  
■ L.A. California - September 2020  
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■ Timmy:

"So Armie," Ellen starts off with just Armie on the screen. "It's nice to have you back on the show."

"It's nice to be back." Armie smiles into the camera.

Liar! If there wasn't a knife to our throats, there's no fucking way we'd be doing this. 

"Tell us what you've been up to since quarantine started." Ellen smiles back into the camera.

Whoa, fuck! She did not ask that. Doesn't she read the tabloids? Or better still doesn't she have an assistant that reads the tabloids?

"Well Ellen," Armie goes into his PR mode and I really don't know how he does that. It's so effortless with him. 

He told me once that everything he says after he repeats the interviewers name is bullshit. Filled with fake smiles, grandiose tales and stories than can never be verified. 

Watching him now, I can see what he means. But he does it so well and the audience eats it up.  
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■ Fin.  
■ L. A. California - August 2020  
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Armie:

I get home a day earlier than anticipated. 

The house is dark and I'd forgotten how much of my furniture was in storage. Thank God for Tyler and Niki, otherwise Tim wouldn't even have a bed to sleep on.

All I expected to find was an air mattress and bean bag chair but there is real furniture. That it's my own is just a bonus. 

But when I check out my bedroom there's no beautiful boy in my bed. There is however a very excited Airedale. 

"Archie! How's my boy?" He bounds towards me and soon I'm getting pawed and licked all over. 

And still I'm not sure where my other boy,Timmy, is.

Opening doors along the hallway, I find there's an air mattress in one of the bedrooms. And lo and behold, there he is curled up wearing the same clothes he was wearing when we video chatted earlier this week.  
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"Mmmm." 

"Hey there." 

"You're here."

"Yes I am. And you're in the spare bedroom."

"Yeah, I didn't want to disturb your dog."

"You could have put him in the hall; in fact he's got a perfectly good bed in the laundry room."

"S'okay."

No it's not. But I don't get into the reasons why Tim doesn't want to sleep on the same mattress my dog has slept on.

He's warm and sleepy and I'm soon stripping down to join him on the king blow up. 

"What --?"

"You have far too many clothes on."

"Okay." He holds his arms up and I'm able to pull his top over his head. 

He's so fucking malleable when he's sleepy. 

I want to ask him if he marched tonight but there's enough time for that tomorrow. 

Getting him naked is my only objective right now.

"Slide over." 

Tim giggles when I scoop him up to deposit, drop if you will, him on the other side of the bed. 

And I come to realise my boy is high as a kite.  
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"What did you take?" I ask, trying not to sound like a parent concerned their child is a drug addict. 

"Mmmm?"

Never mind. It doesn't matter. In the grand scheme of things nothing matters but getting my cock inside the boy I love.

Yes love. That was never an issue.

That I have to march back to the ensuite to get some lube and shut my dog in my bedroom so he can sleep on my thousand count sheets, is also immaterial when I return to find Tim has mostly mastered getting his pants off.

It just hasn't occurred to him the reason why they won't come completely off is because he's still got his shoes on.

I wrangle his foot free of the first pant leg, tossing his runner across the room as Tim attempts to undo the laces of the second shoe. 

"Need help?" I ask, trying not to laugh.

"Fucking shoes." He mumbles. "Fingers won't work."

"I got it." 

He thrust his other foot in the air. Fuck the laces which seem to be irreparably knotted, where I grab the heel to yank off the remaining obstacle. 

His pants are tossed over the bean bag in the corner and he's now completely naked.

It's been sixteen days and five hours since I last held him in my arms and I've got to admit it feels fucking good.

I don't mention his little trip to Mexico and Tim doesn't ask if Archie has always slept with me. 

I understand that isn't quite the same but there's time enough for all that shit tomorrow.  
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In my exploration, I find he's been growing little chin hairs, his hair is longer, luscious even, and even though I would wager he's not had a proper meal since he got here, none of that matters tonight.

He looks the same but something between us is different. 

I understand we've grown, nothing is ever static, and any changes I see are just fodder for a libido that's currently raging out of control. 

That picture the rags posted after he first got here, the one where he had his sunglasses propped on top his head, was so hot that I almost (and I say almost), left New York that very day to drive straight here.  
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Tim raises his arm in a backwards hug as I effortlessly slide into him from behind; his left leg moving to snake around my own while I press one hand around his slim waist; moving slowly but deliberately, to where his body can accept mine. 

A long soulful groan comes out of him as we move together, neither of us wanting it to end too soon. 

So slow and easy gets us there too.  
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And as Tim sleeps in my arms I find I'm still so wired after travelling that rest doesn't come easily. 

That, and this fucking air mattress is not nearly as comfortable as my own bed -- where my dog sleeps.  
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■ Eggs for Breakfast  
■ L.A. - September 2020  
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■ Timmy:

"And we'll be back after this." 

There's a four minute window where I have to take a seat beside Armie. Four minutes where my skin gets clammy and I want to throw up.

Armie's long leg wraps around mine from under the counter, grounding me. Or making sure I don't bolt before the countdown starts again.  
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"Timothee Chalamet" Ellen introduces me."Everyone knows you from Call Me By Your Name and Beautiful Boy, but what's coming up next is the highly anticipated bio-pic Going Electric --"

I stare unblinkingly into the camera, nodding when it seems appropriate to do so; answering about how excited I am to be playing everyone's hero, the great Bob Dylan.  
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We talk for several more minutes although when I watch it back, it turns out to be under a minute and a half. 

We've been coached and this is our big coming out episode. Parameters have been set and it's 2020 for fuck's sake, how can anyone in their right mind find this anything but a loving relationship? 

I mean it probably won't play well in the red states and Armie's mom is going to be having conniption fits as we speak, but that's really not our problem anymore. 

Armie thinks I can't handle his mom but she doesn't get to me the way she does him. I'm not invested in anything she has to say or what she thinks about us.

And -- Where was I? Oh yeah, breakfast.

"What everyone really wants to know is, does Armie still have soft boiled eggs for breakfast?" Ellen seems to think this is funny. Although, at least they're no longer razzing Armie about his dancing.

So I know where she's going with this. It's the main reason we've been roped into doing this publicity stunt. But really how fucking dare she!

"I think Timmy, what Ellen, and the world wants to know, is if you make ME eggs for breakfast." Armie's leg tightens around mine ensuring I stay put. "And the answer would be -" 

I'm not thrilled Armie has taken over my part of the interview, so I sac up and tell her how it is. 

"We'll sometime I cook and sometimes Armie cooks and sometimes we cook together." I want to say, get take-out but we know where peoples minds will go with that one. So I explain it that way, not even letting her get to the place where she asks me if I still cut the top off his soft boiled egg in the morning.

But everyone watching in their homes knows I'm not talking about food.

"So it's much like every other couple," she laughs, "I guess everybody cooks in New York."

What the fuck does she know. And she fucking just called us a couple.

On fucking National TV! 

I knew it was coming. That's what this whole dog and pony show is about. But it's still jarring. 

She asks me more about learning the guitar and how it compared to the intensive piano training I had for the shoot in Italy. 

I answer that it's honestly a pleasure to learn a new instrument that could be taken as more veiled references.

"And did Armie teach you anything? We all know he plays the guitar beautifully."

This interview is starting to become filled with so much innuendo that is making me nervous and really pissing Armie off. 

Ellen should fucking know better but she's reading from the cards. Someone wrote this shit.

It winds down soon enough as Armie takes over again, thank fucking God! And she's finally thanking us for our time.

It was the longest nine minutes in my life. Well actually Armie was alone for the first six, but it felt like I was on camera for the entire nine.  
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■ The Long Exhale  
■ L.A. - August 2020  
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■ Timmy:

Oh God. Armie has me pinned down like a fucking butterfly at a science fair. And I've been holding my breath so long I don't think I can hold off much longer. 

Arms over arms. Hands over hands. His fucking legs pressed over mine. Spread-eagled. My ass so fucking ready that my dick is leaking all over the fucking place. 

My hole winking; fucking begging for his cock. 

Cum to me -- cum inside me --

Cum. Cum. Cum.

And when he does slide home, the breath I've been holding is expressed from my lungs in a whoosh. 

And it's what I've been waiting for. 

Armie slams into me. Not letting me regain any kind of composure -- but fuck composure when he's taking me into places, very dark places where I cease to be me, and he, him. And it's just us. 

And then no longer even that. 

And only sensation exists. 

He fucking slams into me again and my cock that's trapped under me, grinds into the rough bedding of the air mattress. 

And I ask myself why I'm so set on sleeping here when there's that wonderfully huge bed just waiting for us.

Then all thoughts dissolve into a fucking puddle of sweat and cum and when he rolls me over, I'm fed a treat that he's licked off my chest and deposited into my mouth with his tongue.  
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"Armie?" His weight leaves me when he moves to the side. And gathering me into his arms he seems contented to spoon around my body.

"Mmmmm?" I feel him exhale into my neck.

"Let's go to your room." I turn to face him, and before I say the rest, I make sure I'm looking right into those beautiful liquid blue eyes, "It's time to get Archie out of our bed."  
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■ Fin.

■ HOTEL 7.5b Pushing the Envelope  
■ The Hell We've Been Thrown Into  
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■ EPILOGUE  
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■ "When the world is ending but you already have come to terms with the fact that this current time is ruled by chaos... " - AH  
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■ Armie: 

The woman sits with her tablet braced on her knee.

I feel uncomfortable and want to bolt when her gaze lands upon my hands tightly knotted in my lap.

There's something alien about disclosing your innermost thoughts to a stranger. Primarily because after all these years of keeping things bottled up and closed to the outside world, it's hard admitting shit to yourself let alone someone you've only met ten minutes beforehand. 

But I agreed to this, and knowing Tim is by my side, here on the sofa as well as emotionally, makes this all worthwhile. 

His hand moves to settle over mine, calming me, lending his unequivocal support, and that is what loving him and letting him love me is all about.

And that he tries and I try, is about all you can fucking do in this world.  
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■ FIN. HOTEL SERIES 7.  
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☆ the title from the Epilogue is a direct quote from Armie in his mad golfing video  
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End file.
